Sang et Ivoire
by Holly4
Summary: Complete! Post Season 6. Spike is offered redemption from a very surprising source. However, when signs of an uprising evil begin to appear, he must face his fear and guilt and return to the place it all began for him—Sunnydale.
1. Preamble

Sang et Ivoire

Author: Holly

Rating: R

Timeline: Post Season 6 with no reference to Season 7

Summary:  Spike, struggling with his soul and his love for Buffy, is offered redemption from a very surprising source.  However, when signs of an uprising evil begin to appear, he must face his fear and guilt and return to the place it all began for him—Sunnydale. 

Disclaimer:  The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon.  They are being used for entertainment purposes and not for the sake of profit.  No copyright infringement is intended.

*~*~*

Preamble 

He felt it.

An ache streaked across his back, and he felt it.  A pounding echoed in his ears, and he felt it.  Water dripped against his skin, and he felt it.  

It felt so good to _feel._

What an amazing sensation.  Nearly a century and a half dwelling only the memory of human candor rendered all vibrations new and unexplored: lodged somewhere within his conscious as the oddest sense of déjà vu.  Something that existed within the depths of logic.  Cold, dark, and unidentified.  Feelings he never expected to again experience enveloped him with chilling possession, tightening every muscle in his body, stretching his brain until he thought it would ooze from his ears—forcing his eyes to escape behind their sockets as a silent scream fought its way to freedom.  Agony?  Perhaps a bit.  But what was done was done.

Perhaps some disconcertion was in order.  A restored soul was not supposed to do _that.  _All at once, he felt limber and energetic, though he remained stationary on the ground.  His lungs filled with air that he didn't need, veins coursing with life—as though reflecting the best feed of a century.  

It was odd to feel pain and bliss at the same time.  It was even stranger to not crave pain as he had with such fervor.  

It was odd for pain to _hurt.  _

The soul was supposed to make him ache.  Instead, it made him feel _alive.  _

Good things never last, of course.  Vampires in all senses were forbidden to feel alive.  Consequences weigh heavily when they breech that unspoken barrier placed by nature between themselves and mortal man.  A few minutes were granted before the first wave struck, attacking his gut with such force that it would have killed him were he not already dead.  The next did not wait, nor was it any simpler to endure.  Again and again, a foray of long-forgotten faces, long forgotten kills swarmed accusingly before him.  Eyes flashed with the continuous silent recitation of _Why? Why? Why?  Do I dare? _His throat tightened with a soundless scream, a hand struggling to find his eyes, to bat the images away.  But they would not leave him.  A soul was a curse for any aged vampire.  

It was not _his _curse, though, and William recognized this.  After witnessing the self-inflicted torment Angel put himself through, he had vowed never to let himself lower to that stage of desperation should a similar disadvantage befall him.  Of self-loathing for something he could not change, could not have prevented.  The promise had been empty at the time.  Never had he seen himself in this position.  Enduring the silenced pleas of those long dead. 

He understood pain.  He had tasted his share time and time again, enjoying it often.  The thrill of the hunt, of the kill, of a good torture session involving railroad spikes.  The taste of good blood.  Motives came in all shapes and sizes, however ineffectual.  Because he was bored.  Because he was irritated.  Because it was _fun._

It _wasn't_ a curse.  William knew the difference between himself and the demon Spike—knew because he felt the monster's humanity, had for a long while.  Toward the end, the line separating him from the killer had become so pale that it was nearly nonexistent.  

Because of _her._  All because of her.  She whom had led him here.  She who had fueled his holy crusade.  She who had given him life after taking it so many times.  She who supplied his lungs with such blissfully unnecessary oxygen.  Over and over again she had gone to him to die, and yet he was the one who fell cold.  Spike had placed himself in the midst of the deadliest stare imaginable all for the feel of her skin under his.  He had endured bitterness that came in the guise of pointed hate to cover her self-resentment.  For her, he allowed himself to take the fall.  Oh and how that stung!  To be hurt time after time for her own misgivings.

How it felt to hurt _her…_

_Spike…no…no Spike…please don't do this._

William's eyes snapped shut as a sharp pain jittered up his spine.  An ache harboring in his chest begged for a second gulp of futile air and was denied.  His insides were too clogged with the barriers of self-loathing for anything to pass.  The back of his head began to pound with echoes of her protests, each stabbing at his brain with painfully sharp intent.

The biting venom of her rebuttal—_(Ask me again why I could **never** love you)—_was the most difficult to endure.  

Spike had never known remorse or guilt.  As the bloodsucking fiend, he had taken life after life, drank from countless suppliers, and did so with a song in his heart.  And that was the way it was—the way he accepted it.  The way all vampires accepted it.  A soulless demon was not supposed to bear a conscience.  No, no, that would get in the way.  Chip or no chip, nothing was believed to affect his Jiminy Cricket.  And truthfully, nothing had for a hundred years.  There was Drusilla, those months with Harmony—_stupid bint—_and the span of a thousand lifetimes simply watching the idiocy of people.  Long wasted years.

She had given him _feeling.  _Feeling!  He was Spike, the Big Bad, the baddest of the bad.  No woman, no _human _woman was supposed to make him _feel.  _But the demon could not lie.  The demon knew love and loved the slayer.  The enemy.  No matter how many times she brushed him off, he came back.  No matter how she attempted to push him away, how she hurt him without a care, he always returned whenever she was in the slightest danger.  Whenever she raised her voice in his direction.  When he saw what he had nearly done to her, he would have gladly shoved a stake through his heart, if only to save her from himself.

He had hurt her.  Hurt the woman he loved.

The demon whispered it was a fair trade for all the suffering it had endured in looking after her, and immediately silenced with the knowledge that she could never love anything so vile.  So dangerous.  So…him.

Irrefutably, things would have been easier had he never returned to Sunnydale.  If he had taken his chance when he escaped with Drusilla and never looked back.

Even then, had she called, he would have come.  Even then, she was his slayer.  His to keep and kill when he wanted.  His to enjoy fights with.  His to dance with.  The thrill of the century, despite how she annoyed him.  Despite how he wanted to rip her throat out with every encounter.

God, how things had changed.

You know, you got a willing slave… 

He would have been, too.  For months it seemed he was.  There at her beck and call, there to help her whenever she inquired.  Periods of tenderness always preceded her venting of self-disgust in the only way that made sense to her—inflicting as much pain on him as humanly possible.  True, she wasn't _sadistic, _but the slayer loved a good fight, even if her opponent was rendered helpless.

Spike had been perverse.  He loved pain, fed off it.  Every punch seemed to satisfy more than hurt.  Or so things _had_ before he knew his love for her.  Then it was thrust and parry; Buffy fought enough for both of them.  The confession of love buried within his throat only fueled her rage.  He was a demon, after all, and it was conventional knowledge that demons could not love.

But he had.  Spike had loved with more fervor than many humans ever experience.  Even before the dream changed his unlife, a softness covered by layers of rough exterior shaped him to care for Drusilla.  He knew that she had never wholly loved him—never like he had her.  A century has passed with her by his side, and he would have laid his life down for her if it was asked of him.  

Demons weren't supposed to know the humbleness of self-sacrifice.  They weren't supposed to know anything but bloodlust and mayhem.

For Buffy, though, he would have done so much more.  He had held a stake to his old love's heart, awaiting the word to turn her into dust.  What he felt for the slayer provoked a personal reform.  Everything he had built himself up for—thrown away in a heartbeat if he thought she could ever reciprocate his feelings. 

The very same Spike that had bragged proudly about the two slayers notched in his belt.    The very same Spike that had told Angel that demons never change.  The same who ridiculed said vampire for being whipped and housebroken.  The same who had time after time plotted her death.

The same who had saved her.  Saved her so many times from vampires, demons, herself, in his dreams.

But never from _him.  _Never from whom she truly needed saving.

William's eyes slammed shut as the first wave of tears poured down his cheeks.  In a century, he had only cried over her.  Pain like he had never experienced shuddered through his system.  It was as if he had bathed in holy water, if he was surrounded by a shrine of crosses, if a priest were hovered over him, reciting holy scriptures.  

No.  Worse.  He had never known pain like this.

How could he have loved her and…

A demon felt guilt—the man beneath seethed in the repercussions and roared with the sacrament of consequences.  His chest constricted and he grasped at his shirt, vision blurred with tears.  A few seconds passed before he made the first fruitless attempt to stand, a few more before the second, and he finally conceded.  His weary form crashed to the ground without rite as screams tore at his vocals.  Long, agonized cries for the one he hurt.  Screams that sounded his plight to a never-ending foray of darkness where he would never be heard, much less saved.

William saw his victims, the many he had killed, but ignored them all but to behold her face.  That face wrought and twisted with the worse sort of betrayal.

All his victims were without ceremony.  Spike had killed, but they both loved.  Toward the end, it was both the man and the monster.  They had both loved, they both lost.

Neither would ever see her again.


	2. London

**Chapter One**

Since before time began, it was common knowledge that the air carries a growing musky scent identifiable to all living things when a storm approaches.  Consciously or not, humans could detect rain long before it hits without having to consult the sky for an impending forecast.  Old-timers would associate it with an uncomfortable twitch or pain; others might note the atmosphere tingled with a twitch of variation.  Compact with moisture and forewarning.  Of course, there were the more subtle hints.  A crash of thunder following a streak of lightning, the pre-storm drizzle.  Cloudy skies rolling with treacherous clouds: all signs that the weather is about to change.  That God was preparing to throw another temper tantrum.

For vampires, the sensory was especially receptive.  It was accepted and never questioned: demons of the night carried a higher will to sense such things.  The lowest of mortal men could smell blood if they knew how to identify it, but vampires knew exactly when a person was cut.  The rich scent tackled the air and stomach with little forewarning, rendering them helpless to do anything but obey and follow their noses.  As was such with rain.  Even before he peeled his eyes open, William perceived the telling aroma permeating the air.  It was several hours away still, but he sensed it nonetheless.  

Vampires would make the best meteorologists.

There was something else.  The long years had taught him never to be unprepared for the oddest of events.  Besides his ability to detect an oncoming storm, his mastery of location allowed him to never be caught off guard, should he awake in an environment that he did not close his eyes to.  William knew the scent of Paris before it rained and could identify it anywhere.  Likewise, the raw dryness of Prague was lodged deep into the layers of his cranium.  Prague.  He could never forget Prague.  Even as a man, feeling nothing but sorrow for Drusilla, was defenseless to suppress the shudder from shimmying up his spine.

There was Sunnydale where every gust of wind carried the salt of her skin, a whiff of her hair, a tease of her perfume.  Where he could not go anywhere without seeing something to remind him—something to bring her again and again to the tortured palace of his mind.  She was housed there comfortably, watching him watch her.  Taunting him.  Teasing him.  Loving him, if only in his dreams.

It was a nice fantasy.

Now, though, William was far from Sunnydale.  It took only a huff of air to determine his location.  Then it all came back as it always did.  Every painful last recollection.  Every stab at his broken soul.

London.

The room he occupied was dark, chilly, and not too unlike the crypt back home.  A similar knowledge of the intricate sewer systems had allowed travel for nearly a month.  It felt odd being back in the old country.  A part of him stressed that he never really had left, and yet so much had happened.  Conversely, at times it didn't seem too long ago that he crawled to his feet with his newly acquired soul and made a break for the only other place that felt remotely close to home.  

Nothing could be further away than the day he last held her.  

Life after leaving Africa had been more or less the same old.  To William, doing the things birthed into his system as only Spike would know it came simply.  Guilt struck at intervals—seeing a familiar face in a crowd of many to remind him of some aged kill.  However, the torment wasn't constant.  It wasn't a curse.

There was that stable harboring of secreted agony that deactivated him every time he left to search for blood.  Unlike Angel before him, William refused to revert to the readily accessible animal essence if an alternative was available.  Granted, he couldn't kill for his meals even if he wanted to, but there was a lovely underground society that rightly suited his needs.  A bill here, a pint there.  Willy the Snitch came to mind more than once.

The chip was ineffectual now.  William's desire to remove it remained intact only for its uselessness.  It left only shock waves of superfluous pain through his head.  Spider-webbing patterns of futile restraint.  He was long accustomed to feeding from bagged blood and animals or whatever he could locate—the lack of the killing drive was nearly second nature.

_Bloody well housebroken…_

Watching people was fascinating.

Long ago, William had related to the slayer that people were only happy meals with legs.  The infestation of his revived consciousness added greatly to structured perception.  Hours were spent at cafés: hours in which he watched this oblivious creatures act out their lives.

It was better than _Passions.  _So much better.  The anger, the joy, the anxiety, the laughter, the betrayal expressed all through colorful eyes and contorted faces—voices raised or whispered hushes.  Tears that poured against the strongest will.  Confessions of uncontained love, similarly unkempt as husbands and wives made excuses to fornicate with their various paramours.  

The greatest understanding of life came from watching it unfold.  So many things Spike had never comprehended were painfully evident to William's eyes.  A small part of him whispered that it shouldn't surprise him, but it did.  Understanding humanity was a necessity of life that not even the living could grasp.  In fairest regards, the demon had come closer.

That, and the irrefutable knowledge that time and experience had worn him down, and that he was eerily similar to the monster that inhabited his body.  Together they screamed their plight, voices mending into one calling.  Not because they used the same vocals, rather because it was the same provocation.  They loved the same woman, spoke the same language, used the same words, and led damn near the same life.  But for all the similarities, he had to remind himself that they were not one.  There was Spike and there was William.  

Which one was he?

So much.  They shared memories, yearnings, even personality.  William was far from the creature he was before humanity was stolen from him.  Spike made him confident.  Knowing the things he did, having committed the monstrosities he had, having felt as much fervor as any creature could.  Demons couldn't—by definition—experience guilt or remorse.  Spike had.  It had fueled his escapade and led him here.  

He had willingly given William back.  The demon had risen above everything that structured the flow of life and understanding.  It was something Angelus was not capable of.  Something no self-respecting vampire could feasibly accomplish.

A campaign for his freedom had brought him to his knees.  Spike sacrificed himself because he loved her so much.  To protect her from his capabilities—leaving a shell of a man in his place. William felt her still, but unlike his persistent demon, he bade himself to stay away.  No good could come from a return to the States.  It ensured only heartbreak and resentment and the fortunes of bad tidings.  No penance.

He wanted to write again.

The sensations alone were inspiration enough to course a thousand pages.  To feel alive again after being dead so long.  To walk in the shoes of a man reformed.  To see the things he saw.  A world filled with as much poetry as this could not be forever caught in so many words, but he would be damned before he spent an eternity without trying.

The world flowed with poetry.  Poetry as he could never have captured without the multiple lifetime's experience weighing on his shoulders.  Earth had many places for William the Broken-Hearted

His hair was somewhat longer now.  Bleached streaks were beginning to fade at long last, his natural brown bleeding through after years of neglect.  Characteristics that had died with him fought Spike's trademarks to surface for power.  He did not want to avert to either self that had formerly hosted his body.

This was a new man.

Again his mind wandered across the ocean as he raised a mug of blood-flavored coffee to his lips.  With a little provocation, he contemplated what she doing.  Thinking.  If her thoughts rested with him.  

If she missed him at all.

A bitter chuckle coursed through his system.  Missed him.  Hah!  William ignored the scorn of sorrow that reverberated in affect and shook his head.  "Bloody likely…"

So this was the way it would be from now on.  Rather than mourn the hundreds of people he killed, eternity would be spent mourning the one he lost.  Likely long after she was cold in the ground, he would still be bleeding—repenting—for what he did to her.  It was a punishment centuries in the making, and would undoubtedly last until man saw his last era.

And it was deserved.  William felt no unjust resolution in his punishment.  After everything he had done to her, loving her from afar for the rest of his days was a minimal sentence.  He had practice enough.  

There was a nagging eating at his insides, however, that he could not deny.  Though he did not doubt for a second that she could not thoroughly take care of herself, he had witnessed her slipping in the last year of their acquaintance.  After everything that had happened to her—to _them—_it was only fair that she be granted the long awaited calm.  The idea of anyone robbing her of her life pumped him with rage beyond control.

However, _were _she to die, he hoped to whatever deity that her friends knew to leave well enough alone.  With as selfish as he was, he knew has he had known then that resurrection of any soul was risky business.  It had damn near killed her the first time around.  Satirical.  Restoration nearly killing someone.

Ah, with perpetuity on his hands, he had time to stop and appreciate the irony.

Surely they would know enough by now.  With the exception of Harris, the Scoobies were not entirely dense.  

William grinned in spite of himself.  Even in his transformed state, he could not abide the idiocy of her platonic associations.  Xander annoyed him immensely as he had Angel.  The boy simply gave off a bad vibe for vampires.

He had wondered more than once if Harris had abandoned Anya at the altar because of harbored feelings for Buffy.  William snickered.  While his sire had never made a hard habit of it, he had from time to time revealed how very much the boy rubbed him the wrong way.  

Some people never surmount the memory of their first love.  Of course, it would be hard to get over Buffy—especially if he had the luxury of seeing her when none other could.  When she was carefree.  Happy.  Smiling.

Not with him.

These meditations likely would have ensued for some time had a recognizable scent not tackled his senses.  Immediately, William perked, body tense and alert.  His eyes scanned the crowds of passing civilians, seeing no familiar faces.  It didn't matter.  He knew who was near—visual confirmation was uncalled for.  The question—_why?—_arose, unbidden.  Wherever he went for sanctuary, his past was waiting there to flaunt its violent self in his face.  Despite the knowledge beckoning his wits, he didn't want to accept the primal senses of higher perception.

After a minute, he forced himself to concede that it made sense.  Out of everyone that could be there, this clicked within the lines of plausibility.  

When he raised his eyes, William realized that he had similarly been detected.  The man studied him strangely—confusion and more than confusion sprawled across his face.  A face that demanded compensation in answers.  

William understood immediately that he could not express anything that weaned toward humanity.  The last thing he needed was someone to announce to the slayer that she had pushed another vampire fuckbuddy into a further soulful change.  It wouldn't matter that instead of driving one away she had inspired him to reclaim his.  While he trusted the man not to betray his confidence—they both wanted the best for her, and would both agree such terms meant he had to stay as far from her as possible—even if one person knew of the transformation, it was one too many.

Thus he did what came natural, what had been natural for a century.  With confident casualness, he leaned back and propped his feet over the café table, smirking unpleasantly.  "Well, looky looky.  Hello, Ripper."

Rupert Giles blinked his surprise away, stepping forward to gauge a better look at him.  A briefcase was clutched protectively to his chest, hand adjusting his glasses best to his ability as if to sharpen the focus, unbelieving.  "Spike.  Wha…what are you doing here?"

"Don't look too surprised, old man.  This is home for me, too."

"Buffy mentioned that you had left Sunnydale."  If Giles noticed how William flinched at the reference, he wisely ignored it.  "I thought perhaps you had returned to Los Angeles.  That scene seems a bit more…you."

He quirked a brow.  "To what?  Work beside Angel and friends?  No can do, Ripper.  The old country was calling me home."

Giles's eyes narrowed skeptically.  "You're not here at all because of Buffy?"

He flinched again.  Visibly.  The Watcher caught the reaction with ease and stepped forward, deciding against a discreet confrontation.  "Ah, so it is.  Must have been _something_ to drive you out of town.  After all the years we spent trying to get you to leave, they managed to finally discover the killing method.  Tell me…how did they accomplish the feat?"

The man's tone was justifiably cold, and William understood there was no reason to remain diplomatic.  Of course he knew.  Buffy wouldn't hide something like this.  With a sigh, he removed his feet from the table and leaned forward, letting his head fall into his waiting hands.  "Good God," he rasped, voice losing its permanent confident backing.  "You must hate me."

"Believe it or not, Spike, you have never held my high opinion."  Giles stalked forward like a predator, the epitome of a protective father.  "But I never suspected that you would sink to such a low.  I _should _have, but I didn't.  How we ever came to…" He paused, the word tasting wrong on his tongue. _"…trust _you in such an implicit and illogical manner is beyond me.  What you did to her was unforgivable, and—"

"I know!" William finally erupted, releasing straining tension as his eyes welled with tears.  "Don't you think I…I'm not a complete idiot.  I just—Oh God—I—" And then he couldn't speak, couldn't support himself.  He fell to his knees at Giles's feet, sobbing until he could produce no more tears.  When the tremors subsided, he held his head to the ground, awaiting a kick to the gut or a punch to the face; something a person—a _thing—_of his crimes deserved.  There was nothing.  Baffled, he speculated the man would simply walk away and allow him his eternity to wallow in misery.  He wondered if Giles would laugh at the display, if he would mock that he had driven William The Bloody to tears with nothing more than words.

However, the Watcher was more the wiser and did none of these things.  He merely set the briefcase beside him on the ground, quieted, and studied him.  What William did not expect was a hand to grasp his and help bring him to his feet.  His eyes remained on the ground, unable to meet Giles's gaze, looking up only when he sensed it was anticipated.  A shade of confusion and reluctant faith had replaced the arctic storm behind the Watcher's eyes.  Comprehension blossomed and dawned, and he knew.

He _knew._

The burden of being released was too magnanimous for William to pause and consider the negative consequences of his breech.  Former convictions be damned.  Someone knew.Someone _knew._  In that wonderful moment, nothing else mattered.  Not the likelihood of his exposed cover, not the knowledge that would likely tell the Scoobies.  It didn't matter that instead of facing an eternity being hated he would face it pitied instead.  It simply didn't _matter.  _Someone was here and they understood and that was all he cared about.

 He wondered idly how she would react, but knew somewhere that she was only prone to feel compassion beyond seething hate.  William The Once Bloody.  William The Pathetic.

"They have cursed you, haven't they?" Giles concluded with suspended disbelief.  "Somehow…to make you more docile."  His eyes sought answers, finding them to his expectations before a response was vocalized, and he furiously whipped the glasses from his nose.  "Fools!  How can they not see that this will—"

"Calm the bloody hell down, Ripper," William berated softly; pulling himself together in a manner that nearly seemed too simple even as tears still skidded down his cheeks.  "Scoobies didn't do anything to me."  He met the questioning gaze and continued without waiting for the inevitable question.  "I did it.  All on my own.  Went to Africa to get this sodding chip out of my head, and got all souled up instead."

For a minute there was nothing but balanced silence.  Gazes exchanged in rapidity as Giles digested the new information, disbelief evident.  Hesitance to think anything so…noble could—  "You…you got a soul.  You _chose _a soul?"

"I'm not sure," William answered honestly, heaving out a sigh.  "I didn't ask for the chip out, if that's what you mean.  I asked for what she deserved, and they gave her this.  Me with a bleeding soul."  Emotion welled within him, threatening to produce more tears.  His chest constricted with familiar pain, the sort that sought air despite the host of a body that did not need it.  "It was right, you know.  I earned this soul, and she deserves it."  He huffed out another ineffectual breath.  "I need to stay away from her, Ripper.  After what I…I don't suppose you'll believe me if I say that I never meant to hurt her.  Then, I mean.  I know I've meant to hurt her plenty of times, but not then.  I wouldn't…I've never…"  

Gaze still suspicious, Giles motioned for the table he had occupied a few minutes before.  "Sit, Spike.  With credibility, I learn to forgive many things.  Angelus killed Jenny, but I forgave Angel.  Spike hurt Buffy, but—"

"I didn't _mean _to!" he cried defensively, tears rising again.  "You'll believe me, right.  Because I'm all souled up with no place to go, but believe the demon, too.  I was there, remember?  I know what I was feeling, just as Peaches knew what he felt when he made Dru go all topsy turvey."  Eyes shining like birthstones, he leaned forward and emphatically pounded his fist onto the table.  "I. Didn't. Want. To. Hurt. Her.  The truth, mate, is I've been…in this state of euphoria for a while.  The soul can't take all the bloody credit."

"But you would have done it," the Watcher accused coldly.  "Had she not—" 

"I know!" William cried strenuously.  "That was the demon.  And it kills me.  But the…I loved her.  I _do _love her.  That includes the monster."  When he saw the man's disbelieving gaze, he gave up, head crashing into waiting arms.  "I know I'm to blame, Ripper.  Don't get me wrong.  But you _don't _understand.  You can't.  You don't know what it's like to have your entire belief system set up and lived by for a hundred happy years, then crushed by the girl whose supposed to be your enemy.  I don't understand it half the time; how the bloody hell should I explain it?"

"Because it's _impossible, _Spike!" Giles spat.  "Demons CAN'T love!"

At that, William grew angry.  The demon within him raged to be released and correct that overstated misconception.  Everyone stressed the point.  Did they think he was deaf?  "Explain it to me, then, how I could have stayed with Dru all those years?  If it was sins of the flesh, why wouldn't I not have left her the minute she lost her strength for someone strong and durable?  Cor, you can't get a bloke to stay married to his honey for three months in this world anymore.  I was with Dru for a century, faithfully, before I ever heard the name Buffy Summers.  You can't tell me it was fun for me, mate.  I saw Dru do some damn near intolerable things, things that make the black hearted squirm when they're not too busy squealing with delight.  She played me like a bleeding yoyo, but I stayed.  Because I loved her."  Seeing no response in Giles's cynical expression, he rolled his eyes and bristled.  "Forget it.  Anyone who hasn't walked a mile in my shoes would never understand."

"Forgive me if I fail to see the redeeming light while knowing that that very same demon tried to rape Buffy."        

"The _demon, _mate.  She brought out the humanity in the demon.  I wouldn't—it wouldn't…whatever, wouldn't have changed for just anyone."  William scoffed, hurt, but convictive.  "She played me, too, you know.  Worse than Dru ever did.  At least she—"

He suddenly found himself with a faceful of fist, a blow that knocked him out of his chair.  Then he knew he had gone too far.  There was no way to explain this without going too far.  Rubbing his jaw agilely, he clamored to his feet.

"How _dare _you?" Giles rasped.  "How dare you compare Buffy to Drusilla?  How dare you insinuate—"

"It's the bloody truth!" William roared, the volume of his voice alone provoking attention.  "Stop acting like a sodding father who can't stand to hear something about his girl unless it makes her look like a bleeding model citizen.  I am not trying to defend myself!  I wanted to die that night.  I've wanted to die every night since getting this blasted soul.  All I'm saying is that Buffy…she would show me tenderness, then kick my arse.  She kissed me then socked me, slept with me then beat me to a bloody pulp.  I deserve all I got, and more than.  But I didn't then.  All I did was love her, and she…she used me.  Said so, too.  Said she was using me, then beating me senseless to vent the rage she had at herself."  Calming at last, he looked up and waited for another punch.  Another well-deserved punch.  It didn't come.  Instead, Giles sat down again, his eyes trained with distrust.  "Neither of us did right by that."  Silence then, allowing time for the Watcher to collect his thoughts and reply.  A few minutes passed with nothing; just the noisy streets behind them, people passing and speaking of random things.  Nothing of interest.

Finally, William stood, shaking his head.  "What's the point?  Whatever I say, whatever I do—"

"How did you…the demon feel after Buffy kicked you out?"

"I already told you, Ripper.  Like I wanted to stake myself."  His shoulders relaxed, hands finding home at his hips.  "Demons aren't supposed to have a bloody conscience.  She made me…_humane.  _The monster."  He shook his head and looked down.  "It hurt more than anything I've ever—"

"And you wanted the chip out?"

"I thought so."  William shook his head again heavily, closing his eyes.  "I really thought so.  I…_think _so.  Bloody hell, I don't know what I wanted.  Mostly, I wanted rid of the cursed sense of…loving but not having.  Of loving at all."

"And now?"

"Wha?  Oh, the chip?  Yeah…I want it out.  There's no point, mate."  Discreetly, he pointed to his heart and shrugged.  "It's there.  Bleeding soul, and everything that comes with it.  Guilt and likely years of excessive brooding."  He scoffed.  "Maybe I do belong in LA with Peaches.  He could gimme some pointers."

Giles frowned.  "Is it just Buffy…what you did to her that drives your guilt?"

"Honestly, yes.  Because mate, a part of that was _me.  _Not all of it, but a part.  Demon or no demon, it loved her and I love her.  It wasn't _me _who killed all those people.  That was the demon before it was tamed."  He laughed unpleasantly at the insinuation.  "Domesticated.  Point is I rather doubt I hurt anyone ever again without putting a bloody stake through my chest two seconds later.  The chip just…hurts."  At that he paused, considered, frowned, and retracted.  "You know, forget I said it.  Take it all back.  Leave the sodding chip in.  I deserve it."

"You do," the Watcher agreed.  "Just remember that."

Bitterly, William scowled at him.  "If this is the best thing you have to do then I suggest you bugger off, Ripper.  I give myself enough hell.  I don't need any pointers from the peanut gallery."

The air turned cold and nothing passed between for another long minute.  The vampire managed to maintain contact, not about to admit that he did not feel worthy enough to even look Giles.  Despite the unfortunate circumstances, he had to attempt to preserve one shred of dignity.  Finally he sighed, looking away and shaking his head with culmination.  "Forget it.  Do me a favor: don't tell Buffy that you saw me when you see her again.  Don't tell her anything.  I don't want her to stop hating me just because I got me a soul."  He sighed, turning away.  "She won't, I know, either way…but she can't know.  She can't know that I'm…"

Without turning back, he sensed Giles rising behind him.  Then a hand was at his shoulder, oddly comforting.  

"Whatever happened between you and Buffy wasn't good for her," the Watcher observed coldly, unapologetic for the reference that made the vampire's flinches more and more perceptible each time it was recycled.  "It put her in a place that might take years to bring her out of."  There was a sigh.  "I can't believe I am about to say this.  You don't deserve to hear it, but here it comes anyway.  Spike, I don't believe she would have reacted as she did if she did not feel _something_ for you.  But I agree.  It is right that you two stay apart.  Nothing good could ever come from—"

"Right then."  William stepped out of arm's reach and turned to face him.  "Then it was good seeing you, Ripper.  Take care of her for me."

A vague look of surprise cascaded over Giles's face.  He frowned and stood—the embodiment of British etiquette whenever one, even a lowly bloodsucking fiend, was the departing party.  Conflict sprawled across his features, and just as the vampire stepped near the boundaries of earshot, he called after him.

Witnessing Giles jog was a sight to remember.  One arm swinging gracefully at his side, the other tucking his briefcase tightly near his chest, he stopped and caught his breath, ignoring the look of bewilderment that William was shooting in daggers.  At that, the Watcher sneered and gathered himself, making a move to straighten his tie.  "Don't even bother," he suggested.  "You can't be anywhere as surprised as I am."

William's eyebrows perked and he reached into his coat pocket—notably not his duster—and withdrew an unopened pack of cigarettes.  "Wanna place a pretty wager on that?"

"You still smoke?"

"Bloody right, I do."  He lit the cigarette and blinked, scowling in confusion.  "Just out of curiosity, why would I not?  Not going to die of cancer anytime soon."

"Well…I know Angelus smoked, but Angel never expressed the—"

The vampire scoffed and rolled his eyes.  "Bollocks," he sneered.  "Is this the way it's going to be every five seconds?  'When Angel has a soul, he does this.  When Angel has a soul, he does that.'  Angel's a bloody pedestal.  Do I look like Angel to you?"

Giles looked at him resignedly.  

"Right," William continued.  "I'm _not _Angel.  Angel couldn't love her without a soul.  I can.  I did.  I've been there.  Think Angelus would have let her lead him around like a sodding dog on a leash?"

"Are you going to make me hit you again?"

He blinked in surprise, words miraculously stolen from his lips.  "Are you asking permission?  That's a first."

"Do not test me, Spike," he warned grimly.  "Soul or no soul, you're still rather harmless when it comes to the living."  The skies began to thunder, a streak of lightning painting the shadows of a cloud before fading to black.  Neither made note of it, simply continued walking as couples scurried from the sidewalks in search of shelter.  

"What is it you want, old man?" William asked at last, puffing the last of his cigarette away before tossing it aside.  "With as much as—"

"I want your help."

He stopped cold in his tracks as the heavens opened and it started to rain.  Giles paused a few strides ahead of him and turned, manifestly unashamed of the reference that nearly provoked tears from his companion.  A few wayward flashes of surprise streaked across his face with timely cracks of lightning, but he did not withdraw his statement or leap to an explanation.  They simply watched each other: one untrusting, one unworthy.  One willing, one hesitant.  

A war raged within him.  Helping the slayer's former watcher would likely not do much to banish her from his mind, however futile the task was predetermined to be.  The inward voice he had grown so accustomed to listening to screamed that no good could come from this.  Any remaining associations with—

If he helped Giles, he inadvertently helped her.  He owed her that much.

"Why?"

"To prove that you love her, Will."  The man simply astonished him.  The intractable use of his given name, spoken without hindrance.  With understanding.  Almost Man-To-Man.  "To start from the very bottom and make as many amends as you can within this lifetime.  I have to take Willow back to Sunnydale in a few days.  There I do not intend to stay for too long…" He broke off and sighed, looking down.  "I need to see her do better.  To finally progress.  Last year was such a…hard year on all of us."  Wisely, he ignored the flinch that crossed William's face.  "In order for her to grow, she must do so without me there telling her what to do.  But as you might understand…" He laughed slightly.  "I cannot stay out of her life.  I cannot stop _watching _after her.  I have for so long.  It feels wrong not to."

"Then why don't you stay there?  Or somewhere closer to there?" The vampire drew a hand across his head, swiping elongated strands of browning hair from his eyes.  Rain continued to pour, and they both ignored it.  "She'll need you eventually, Ripper.  She's the slayer, but she's different.  Don't you get it?  The slayer without friends and family to support her is the one who dies.  You think either of the slayer's I did in had a support system?  Think I'd be here if they did?  Bloody no.  You, Red, Soldier Boy, Peaches, even Harris and the Nibblet have kept her alive this long, and—"

A pained look crossed the Watcher's face, and William could see what was coming.  More words that were earned in a rite of passage, but made no less comfortable to admit, much less vocalize. "You forget someone.  You have too, Will.  Much as it pains me to admit it, you've done a lot of good in your day."  A shadow crossed his face.  "But still managed to cause a world of hurt.  I do not know if she will ever be able to forgive you, but allow me the chance to help her try."  Giles spoke casually, though it was obvious that every word was stinging him as though he had walked into a barbed wire fence, and each step was digging into him a little bit more than the last.  "When I return from Sunnydale, I will maintain my watcher duties by researching prophecy dates and keeping steady contact with Xander.  He told me he would…watch out for her and alert me to all the demonesque happenings back home."  He stepped forward again, beyond the fence and into new territory.  Willful evolution passed residual prejudices.  "I could really use your assistance…your knowledge and your experience about vampire habitués and what upcoming dangers she might face.  If prophecies do look to be occurring, you can…well…"

"In other words," William sneered, shaking his head, "you want me to be your replacement Angel?  Lost yours a few years ago, you did.  Your helpy helper with all the books and…" He broke off when he saw Giles's face, smirk fading, resonance setting in immediately.  "You know I would do anything for her."

Though he nodded, the Watcher could do nothing but observe him doubtfully—the sort of look that read: _You're my only choice, but you'll do.  _"You keep saying that," he noted.  "Prove it.  Help me."

"I will."  And that was that.  A contract constructed through dialogue.  An understanding.  A comfort zone.  The promise was made and would not be broken.  No fee was offered and none would be asked.  This was not a job—it was retribution.  His way, however meager, to compensate for multiple wrongs.  "What do you want me to do, then?"

"Keep quiet, firstly.  We do not need Willow seeing you and passing along the news back home.  The more people who know of your condition, the more likely Buffy is to find out."  The promise was still unspoken, but William understood with no ceremony that Giles would keep to the request and remain silent about these matters.  "I suggest you stay in for a few days.  When I return, we will begin our studies."

So simple.  "Right."  William blinked then as though his eyes had just opened and realized he was sodden from head to toe.  "Ummm…when did it start raining?"

"A while ago, Spike."

"Will.  I liked it better when—"

"I'll call you what I like.  Where will I find you, when I return?"

Making no move for shelter, William stood back and turned to the vacant tables outside the café, lights still spry as people hovered over warm cups off coffee to shake off the storm.  "Good a place as any.  I'm there mostly every night."

"Doing what exactly?"

"Watching.  People are so…"

"Inedible."

He grinned wickedly.  "Have been for a while, pops."  He pointed with familiar matter-of-factness to his cranium and tapped.  "Then it is, then.  I would say hi to Red, but…"

"Yes, yes."  Giles began moving with more fervor, as though just realizing that he, too, was drenched with rainwater.  "Then it is.  When I return, I—"

"Just find me, old man.  I'll be lurking about somewhere."  William turned as the Watcher did and they stalked in their separate directions.  

The rain continued to beat for a few seconds before ceasing with cold asperity.  He did not notice.  Like a reptile, the climate was rarely a concern.  Same old.  His thoughts were far away.  Wondering, debating if he had made the right decision for her.  

A part of him wanted her to know so badly, but he knew it was wrong.  

No, no.  This was much better.  He would help without involvement.  

This way, he could protect her without harming her with his presence.


	3. Stepping Stones

**Chapter Two**

Ten days passed with the same slow monotonous tenor.  A number of random doings piled onto his work list—nothing he would ever construct into cold habit.  Errand followed errand infinitely to pass time, and did so with ever unchanging slowness.  William understood.  In the old days, life sped with little interest to the timetables of others.  Same old filled his plate like a reliable ice cream flavor.  A kill here, a hunt there.  Tedium in all its glory.

He had only had occasion to count the days once.      

How he had ever gotten away with the never-ending complaints of ennui was beyond him.  There were the slopes, yes, but everyone experienced those.  The century had birthed him into a world-class complainer.  Defending champion of the first rank.  

He wished he could go back to that selfish waste of flesh and snap him out of it, though knew Spike would likely break his neck in retribution—in the heat of denial that he could ever reach such a lowly state.  The only thing that would save him was the indisputable presence of the demon's bigheadedness.  That and perhaps the need to satisfy some perverse fantasy conjured up by Drusilla.  Regardless of what she said about being ill, he knew that she enjoyed being petted in the way he had cared for her.

And so it was for ten days.  Nightly visits to the café and the retreats that commenced at closing.  Uneasy, disturbing sleep from dawn until sundown and begin again.  Day by day trips made to the underground supplier of blood to paying vampires.  There he remunerated with stolen funding, sampled, cringed at the foul secondary taste, then coughed up the extra bucks for an additional bag.  Willy the Snitch had sold better stuff, but vampire regulars assured him that it was an acquired taste.  He would get used to it, though he had never before tasted foreign packaged blood from inferior sources.  As all things, he supposed it would take some getting used to.  What choice was there? 

Red had once made the transition from regular to diet soda by mixing the two to wean herself on the weaker product.  While he couldn't mix pig's blood with humans unless there was a willing donor or an especially hot delivery to his supplier, it was blood-flavored coffee for him.  Not completely despicable.  It helped drain away the bad taste.

"It doesn't taste as sugary," Red had told him at the Magic Box as she popped open two cans and poured both into the same glass.  It was one of those rare moments he had with her alone.  Spike had always liked to think that the chip had forced him to forge the ridiculous alliance with the Scoobies, but truth be told, he had liked Willow for a long while.  Long before he knew his love for Buffy.  While they had never been particularly close, she treated him as close to a man as any of them ever had when they spoke.  She was his first non-victim after the Initiative planted the chip in his skull.  She gave him the cookie to get the Buffy taste out of his mouth.  She was Red, plain and simple.  

That particular day, she had been in a chipper mood.  It was during one of her 'on' phases with Tara.  "Takes some getting used to is all," she had observed, more to herself but loud enough to welcome commentary.  "Soon I'll quit cold turkey and it'll be tasteless diety goodness for me."  Then, with a slightly less enthusiastic grin, she had mimicked a cheerleader whoop and twirled her hand in the air.  "Yay diety goodness."  

On the tenth night, Giles approached him.  Appearance worn and demeanor fatigued, he breathed a near inaudible greeting and took a seat without awaiting invitation.  William nodded and took a hearty drink. 

"You've looked better, Ripper," he noted casually after a few seconds.  "Jet-lagged?"

There was a nod of confirmation, though no reply until the Watcher had ordered a latte.  Perhaps it was the lack of jest in tone, but William was genuinely surprised at the man's passive conduct.  No biting remark or stinging retort.  Nothing to suggest he was the scum of the earth and deserved to be hated instantly by anyone who approached him.  Best not to waste it; he was too smart to think such could last.  He thought it wise to wait until addressed before speaking again.

Keeping Spike silent—soul or no soul—was a trying activity.  Fortunately, his wait was not overly emphasized.  As the waitress brought his order, Giles leaned forward and drew in a breath.  "The trip lasted longer than I anticipated," he observed, taking a deep drink of much-needed caffeine.  "Rehabilitating Willow into life without…she reacted better than I would have guessed.  Buffy asked me to stay for a few days and accompany them to the regular places.  The Bronze, and what have you."  He paused thoughtfully.  "For better or worse, Willow is staying with Xander until we know that she has fully recovered."

"Recovered?" William understood that Red had experienced a dark aversion into the black arts, but had yet to hear anything of the chaos that ensued following his departure.  She had performed a number of potions and spells that somehow went awry over the past few years—often with what he considered to be amusing and self-beneficial consequences.  

Giles regarded him with surprise.  "Oh.  I forgot you were elsewhere.  Yes, Willow had a…rather serious episode last year."

Concern was the initial response, though he understood that if anyone was seriously injured the old man would have told him by now.  Still, his thoughts were trained and he would not be at rest until he heard verification.  "Is everyone…how are they?"

"Alive," Giles replied.  "Though I suppose you guessed that."  Then his voice grew grave and weary—an all around solemn air overcoming him.  "My mistake.  Tara…well, Tara was killed.  It's what…"

William's eyes went wide and he leaned forward.  "Oh God.  Red…she…"

"Willow couldn't cope.  Her repression into the dark arts presented itself with the deadliest of forces.  She killed Warren and attempted to destroy the world."

He blinked disbelievingly.  "Red?  Destroy the world?"

"Xander brought her out of it." The Watcher sighed heavily.  "It wasn't really her, Spike.  It was almost like she was—"

"A vampire?"  He pressed forward cautiously, aware that anything was liable to blow into his face.  "Angelus?"  It wasn't the best example he could have provided, but the only one that instantly sprang to mind.  Angel was the only vampire the Scoobies had seen both sides to.

"A demon," Giles covered quickly, though he had reddened, as though scorched.  "As if a demon had possessed her or…something.  She was reacting to Willow's emotions, but she wasn't Willow."  Though conviction splayed across his face, William could tell it was difficult convincing even himself.  It was always complicated when a loved one goes bad.  

Almost as hard as it was when a natural-born killer has a sudden attack of conscience.

Then the vampire's eyes darkened.  Though he felt no justification at responding to a negative insinuation, the thought still made him writhe.  And he couldn't stop himself.  "Oh, so it's that… You can forgive Red for trying to wipe out all humanity.  A demon inhabits for a century and everything is still my fault."

As soon as it was out of his mouth, William's pupils dilated with the foreknowledge of his ignorance and he looked away in shame before Giles could conjure a reply.  Hearing confirmation was unneeded.  He understood he had again crossed the line.  It was difficult not to now that he didn't know where it was drawn.  "I'm sorry, Ripper.  I'm a bleeding fool.  I…" he trailed off in desperation.  "I just want to make everything right.  I know I can't, but I'll spend the rest of time trying."

Silence still.  He would not look up.  Even now, the wrong word, the wrong thing, spoken before he could consider the consequences.  The soul had not affected his already-suffering judgment.  Lord knew he had done it time after time in her presence.  Knowing what he felt, knowing what seemed most logical to him but speaking so insensitively that no one would give him a second's deliberation.  Same old song but set to a different tune.    

He had tried.  He had tried so hard to understand compassion.  No one had ever credited his attempts.  

Though unsafe, a few silent seconds later he hazarded a look at the Watcher, surprised not to discover Giles's eyes arctic as he had suspected.  Rather, he drew in a breath and looked down, reaction not reflecting through his expression.  "I understand your aggravation, Spike.  However, this is going to be difficult.  Much more so than it was with Angel.  We knew him before he lost his soul, and we understood how to talk to him.  React to him.  With you, we're all so accustomed to—"

"But even before that, Ripper!"  William erupted, unable to help himself.  He slammed an angry fist against the table, ignoring the crack that sprang beneath his fist and ran the length of the surface.  "I was trying so bloody damned hard.  Do you have any sodding idea how hard it was for me?  How…I'm a demon, man!  Soul or no soul, the demon is there.  It will _always _be there.  It's eating away at my insides, paining me with every turn—every time I crave blood, the demon begs to take over."  He shook his head heavily.   "But I've tamed it.  _I _tamed my monster."

The Watcher's eyes were dark but not accusing.  "How can you know?"

"I've been able to hit…hurt Buffy for…since before we were…" The word 'together' did not fit anywhere in their relationship.  And gauging the expression on Giles's face, elaboration was not needed.  "A kink in her revival.  If I wanted to kill her…I've had plenty of opportunities."  With a sad smile, he gazed off thoughtfully.  "I used to just…just watch her.  That first night…I couldn't stop watching her.  As she slept…she _breathed.  _Cor, I'd never seen anything so beautiful.  She was warm.  She was so small and deadly.  So—"

"Not yours," Giles growled.  Though he didn't twitch beyond his lip curling in disgusted—however bottled—rage, William was sure he saw his punching fist flex ever so slightly.

"Not anyone's," he agreed.  "The point, mate, is that I came to a point where the sodding chip didn't matter anymore.  If I wanted her dead, I would've killed her during—or—when I had a chance.  When she was most vulnerable.  I didn't."  He exhaled deeply and took a sip of blood-coated coffee.  "Maybe she was right.  Maybe it wasn't love.  I've never known anything else.  It felt…it was stronger than what I had with Dru."

"What you had with Drusilla wasn't—"

"Don't bloody judge until you've bloody been there, wanker," William snapped, shaking his head.  "I shouldn't have to walk on bloomin' eggshells around you.  We've already covered this."  Contradiction was written clearly on Giles's face, but he ignored it and gazed off with thoughtful indifference.  There were so many swarming emotions in his head; things he knew, things he remembered, things that were so new and viable that it took his breath away.  It had been two months since he acquired his soul and the adjusting had yet to wear off.

"I didn't understand until now," he reflected gravely, unsure if he intended to speak aloud but continued when he saw no harm in it.  "I couldn't grasp that loving meant leaving when she asked me to.  It was all 'I want, so I stay until I get.'  Bloody idiot."

Giles's gaze was unsympathetic and wary, though still far from furious.  It seemed palpable to the place he was at, though he had made no attempt to grasp it.  The vampire felt it every now and then, heard it creep into his voice, but the Watcher never allowed it to consume him.  He was putting out every effort.  "I'm not entirely inclined to disagree with you."

"But it doesn't matter at all that I was _trying?  _It wasn't all for her, you know.  I helped the Nibblet when big sis was bloody six feet under."  William closed his eyes painfully.  "I went against my nature willingly.  I—"

"You can stop trying to convince me.  I believe you, Spike," Giles announced without preamble.  His voice was soft-spoken but carried the force of a massive storm—perhaps the four most liberating words in the English language.  All at once, he felt himself swell with release and hope.  The rarest form of hope.  

_I believe you, Spike._

That was all he would get from Ripper, and astonishingly, it was enough.  Never before had something so meager been enough to sate his appetite.  It was more than he had been allowed from a living being in the entirety of his demonic existence.  Trust.  Faith.  From a man.

From _Giles._  

"Thanks, old man," he murmured, barely audible with the enormity of his gratitude.  "I appreciate it."

The Watcher nodded and took a sip of latte.  "I know."

"Still hate me?"

"With a passion."  He smiled grimly.  "And who are you to call me 'old man'?"

"You prefer Ponce?  Or Poof?  Or bloody _poofter?"_

"Unless I am mistaken, you turned one hundred twenty nine this year.  Or was it a hundred thirty?"

"Yeah," William retorted with a cocky drawl, relaxing his hands behind his head.  "Might as well say it if I can get away with it."  His grin was authentic.  It felt good.  He hadn't smiled in weeks.  "So, aside from Red, how was everyone?"

"Better.  Xander is trying to win back Anya with a variety of…well—"

There was a perceptible huff.  "Poor bloke.  His girl all…well…she still demony?"  The subject of Anya was a sensitive one, and he wasn't about to bring it up for the unlikelihood that Giles wasn't aware of that portion of his indiscretions.  

The Watcher merely quirked a brow and took another sip of his drink.  "Not really a remedy for that that we are comfortable working.  Willow is completely off magic now, or should be.  Buffy has to be sure to keep her away from the Magic Box, and Xander performs nightly inspections of her room and sorts through her personal things.  All things witchcraft have been banished from the house.  Beyond what did it for her the last time, Anya remains rather…_demony, _as well as cold to Xander's attempts.  Repellant.  No one said anything, but I believe everyone—or at least, no everyone—thinks you are to blame."

The smile dissipated from his face and blunt coldness washed over.  Cold hardly affected him, but this did.  It shook him until his insides rattled.  "Because—oh, bloody hell.  I really did bugger things up for myself."

"Putting it lightly," Giles agreed.

William sighed and snapped his eyes shut.  The next question was futile and he knew what his answer would be, but it had to be asked.  Just for that shimmer of hope that something had passed.  That someone had made reference.  Had remembered.  Had forgiven.  "So…no one…she didn't, mention me, did she?"

"No.  Furthermore, they don't know that I've seen you."

It was difficult to feel disappointment at something that was manifest in answer, but it seethed still.  "How's the Little Bit?"

"Cold and impervious to most everyone.  She said all of three words to me over my visit. Dawn was glad to see Willow and appeared closer to Buffy than I have seen in…well, ever."  The Watcher shook his head as though astonished.  "I only saw her establish meaningful dialogue with her sister and Xander.  Buffy's working with her, I think.  Helping her learn how to defend herself and slay demons."

The vampire grinned but felt no joy behind it.  "Good for her.  The Bit deserves it."  The thought that the man had been so close was nearly intolerable.  Exhaling again quickly, he nodded and looked away.  They needed to discuss something else.  Quickly.

What else was there to talk about? 

Shop.

"So, any big evil arising?" he drawled conversationally, best he could.  "Anything I can—"

"Where are you staying, Spike?"

The question successfully astounded him and broke his line of thinking.  "Below.  Found me a place not as nice as home, but reasonable.  Right near a finicky eatery for vamps.  Sweet little set-up."

Giles grinned humorlessly.  "You hate it, don't you?"

"With a bloody passion."  For a minute, he thought the Watcher might do something completely out of character and offer him room and board.  Under such circumstances, he would have to decline.  The man had only recently gone from wanting to stake him to this level of civil conversation.

Besides, he couldn't afford to look like a bloody poofter.  He might not be Spike any longer, but he had the demon's reputation to live up to.

As he suspected, his worries were in vain.  Giles had far too much dignity to even hint toward suggestion and was still miles away from trusting him.  It was understandable.  In these early stages, he was learning still how to trust himself.

"I wonder, Spike…have you considered taking on an actual occupation?  Something that would make a decent living?"

"Living?" he scoffed, curious but not about to reveal his interest.  "Do I look alive to you?"

"Well, to the untrained eye, yes…I would say you do."

A brief pause.  "That's beside the point.  Sod the bloody untrained eye. Do you know how long it's been since I put in an honest days work?"

"An honest day's work is not what it used to be, and furthermore, such is all the more reason to hear me out," Giles retorted with annoying insistence.  "It won't be overly difficult.  I have become aware of a position open that I thought might tickle your fancy."

Pointedly, William sat back and quirked a brow.  "Go on, mate.  I'm at the edge of my seat.  Although, I warn you, if it's not as medical assistant for the Red Cross, I'm liable to up and leave."

"And what a shame that would be.  The…well, _a_ library near me has a curator position open.  I know you are slightly less than…couth in such areas, but you do possess a first-person knowledge of various historical occurrences."  Pause for input.  Nothing.  As his unimpressed gawk grew longer and more blasé, the Watcher only frowned and continued.  "You would be required to remain indoors during light hours, I expect.  As long as you stay away from windows, which shouldn't be any difficulty.  There is a spacious basement with—"

"In other words, Ripper, you want me to do something that _you_ would be _great_ at."  William's eyes narrowed skeptically.  "We might be on better terms, mate, but I am not a younger…_looking_ version of you."

"It could help us, Spike.  I need a safe hold for my volumes and a quiet place to research."  Then, in a lower voice he added, "It could help her."

That was it.  That was the killing blow, and Giles knew it.  Briefly insinuate her in any form and he would obey like a well-trained dog.  With a resigned sigh of defeat, he looked down and shook his head.  "Dirty pool, old man.  The things a bloke will do for a sodding dollybird."

The Watcher grinned victoriously.  It was odd watching the man gloat; he hardly made practice of it.  "Excellent.  Now, there are some preparations—"

"Preparations?"

"—that we need to cover.  You'll have to get cleaned up…" His eyes studied William's appearance dryly from head to toe, as though he had just seen him.  In truth, the vampire varied little in look excluding the coloring of his hair and the absence of the duster.  There weren't many bathing opportunities when you lived underground, but in all fairness, he made due with what he could and cleansed as much as possible.    "Considerably.  And you'll need some respectful attire.  A—"

"Wait just a bleeding minute!  I refuse to become your dress-up doll."

Giles frowned at him.  "For Buffy," he said shortly, deactivating his fire with instantaneous reflex.

"Garr!" the vampire growled. "Fine!  Fine!  Fine!  Say the magic name and I'll do your bidding."  

The Watcher grinned and had the decency to look mischievous.  "That is the idea," he agreed.  "I'll arrange a meeting with the administration tonight.  Would…" Again he trailed off, features not as pleasantly occupied as before.  A scowl tickled his lips before the façade of resolve set in.  A disagreeable but essential condition.  "You will have to stay with me tonight.  I have some…suits you may borrow and I need to quiz you on your qualifications.  Produce some paperwork and so forth."  Giles looked up, saw he was about to protest and silenced him significantly by arching his brows, not needing to say the name again before the hint was taken without rebuttal.   

William slumped in defeat. The echo of her name reverberating in his mind silenced the smaller voice that screamed, _Bloody poof! _ "Fine," he grumbled.  "Fancy me up, mate.  You can take the bleeding paperwork, too.  But I'll tell you right now—I'm not about to take any history lessons from you.  I was born when the most interesting history was happening.  My grandpap fought in the Revolutionary War and I can guaran-damn-tee you that my schooling as a youngster was much more—well, thorough than any of the Scoobies'.  The World Wars, well…I had a bloody bloodfest with Dru.  Damn near tasted all the warm foreign blood I could.  As I recall, wars were the best times to feed.  I—"

"And no guilt, how astonishing."  The remark hit a barb and earned a glare; both of which went ignored.  "Spike, I don't need an illustration of your experience."

"And I, Ripper, don't need you to tell me things that I would know more about than you."  The vampire leaned back with a familiar tang of arrogance.  "I speak several languages and can read a dozen more, have_ caused _history as much as I witnessed it, and have more natural schooling than any twenty-year old poofter could imagine.  So put that in your bloody pipe and smoke it."

Either the Watcher was too offended or too amused to reply.  The look projected suggested neither and both at the same time.  After a second, his lips curled in a grin and he arched his brows.  "Well," he said with conservative air.  "If you tell them that, perhaps with slightly less colorful language, I believe you will suffer no impediment in acquiring the job."

"Your artsy fartsy proprietors won't appreciate me calling them poofters."  William retorted inquisitively.  "But if I tell them that I survived a concentration camp, they'll step aside—no questions asked?"

"You _can _answer questions about demonic ritual, despite how very little you yourself participated in fulfilling the structured text."  He was joking!  The old English gent was actually joking with him!  It was liberating.  Encouraging.  The smile on his face lingered only a minute before he recalled something and frowned in confusion.  "You were in a concentration camp?"

"It was just an example, Ripper."

"Oh…of course.  I knew that."

The walk back to Giles's hacienda was silent though comforting.  They strode side-by-side, a respectful distance apart.  There was no want or need for conversation.  A million inquiries filled the vampire's head, but he dared not voice them.  The information the Watcher provided was reluctant at best.  To attempt and divulge any more would be disrespectful, and beyond futile.

Truthfully, Giles's residence was not altogether different than the one he had left in Sunnydale.  The floor plan was notably dissimilar, but William felt a pained intake of familiarity as he beheld his surroundings.  Everything was situated just so that made it so…Giles.

So unwrapped was he that he didn't notice he was already standing over the threshold.  When he had been invited in, he did not know.  He had not heard Giles speak, but somehow it didn't matter.  What mattered was the faith that tinted the Watcher's gaze a shade darker every time their eyes met.  The civility of simple conversation.  The knowledge that a man who had thought so little of him could put prejudices aside so effortlessly and offer him that one sliver of redemption was beyond moving.  If he lived a thousand lifetimes, if he saw the end of time and spent eternity doomed to repeat his mistakes, he would never be able to make it up to him.

"Lower the blinds," Giles said suddenly, indicating the windows along the far wall.  "There isn't a spare room, I'm afraid.  Well, there is, but I made it into a library a while back.  The sofa is all yours."

William eyed the designated chaise with a quirked brow.  "Where did Red sleep?"

"In my room.  Don't expect the same treatment."

"I wouldn't take it if you offered on a silver platter."  It was the truth and they both knew it, despite how colorfully he accentuated his tenor.  The vampire approached the windows and estimated the variety of angles that morning sunlight might strike the sofa, settling finally to do things the easy way.  "What's with the friendly reminder about the sunlight?  After a hundred years, it's a habit no bloody new scruples can get you out of."

"Yes, yes," Giles acknowledged airily.  "Can't take any chances.  I'm terribly fond of that settee."

"You have a telly in here?"

The Watcher looked at him cynically.  "Don't tell me you still watch that dreaded soap opera.  _Passions, _or what is it?"

There was a rich chuckle.  "I got a soul, didn't lose my mind.  _Passions _is still the best damn show in syndication."

"Well, I haven't checked, but I'll pray that those awful American soap operas aren't—"

_"I_ have a bloody telly, mate.  Think I could have survived underground with nothing better to do than count the cracks on the walls and wait until the shop down the sewage pipe opens up for business so I can cough up damn near highway robbery for a pint of cold pig's blood?"  On cue, his stomach grumbled and a look of uncultivated hunger tackled his features.  "Speaking of which, I don't suppose you—"  

"No."  Giles removed his glasses wryly and approached the kitchen.  "When I came to London, I never thought I might again be playing host to a vampire, soul or no soul.  But…umm…I'll be sure to keep some stocked, should this highly unlikely scenario find occasion to repeat itself."  He was rustling with supplies where William could not see, and had not bothered to follow.  "However, if you're that terribly hungry, I do have some Brandy and all the basics you would require to construct an absolutely splendid turkey sandwich."

The vampire coughed back a snicker, voice dripping with familiar cynicism.  "Mmm. Right. Sounds nummy, but I'll pass.  Do you have any gravy?"  William had backtracked and was grinning tightly to himself.  "Remember what she said, right after I got all chipped out?"

"It has blood in it?'  Giles did a thorough scan of his refrigerator and shook his head cagily. "I'm afraid not.  We'll get some—"

No sooner was the suggestion voiced that William shook his head with sudden persistence, eyes going wide.  "No!  No.  I don't want you to go to any bloody trouble, Ripper.  No more than you have already.  I don't want to get too comfy here—I very doubt you'd like to sublet your sofa to a guy like me.  You can't pretend it's your favorite set-up, either."  The vampire shook his head and sighed.  "'Sides, I should get that new place, according to you, a decent…"  A pause as he struggled with the terminology, grinning against his better nature. "…living, so I'll have my legal means of getting the goods."

For a minute, all Giles could do was stare.  Disbelief and more blazed behind his wide eyes—mouth gaped as he estimated the stranger before him.  This thing that was neither demon nor man, but somehow more humane than anyone could ever credit.  Despite everything that colored their painfully bright history, despite every minute annoyance, the singular display served as the most unexpected of epiphanies.     

"You _are _William," he concluded in awe.  "And…you are Spike.  I—"

Befuddled, the vampire arched a brow, regarding him as though a chicken's head had suddenly replaced his own atop his neck.  "Yeah…what of it?"

The most astute realization took place when their guards were down, when William wasn't trying to convince and Giles was actually willing to listen.  To stand there and be convinced that a character such as the Big Bad's was deserving of redemption.  It came not in the form of a test or heroic identity—simply the willful cross of the emphasized line of separation.  The consideration of others.

When at last his astonishment dwindled, the Watcher shook his head and brought himself back to the present.  "Oh…oh…"

"What was that about?" To make the situation more extraordinary, William hadn't realized his step across the parallel—initiative move that blended word with action.

Giles cleared his throat, arching his brows briefly and offering a tight grin.  "William," he said.  "You are welcome to stay here as long as you like."

The invitation, presented any other time, would have made the Watcher consequentially flinch his regret and Spike snicker something not terribly flattering.  Now, however, now with everything that had passed, the vampire felt his cold body fill with warmth and his heart burst with song.  He would never accept, he knew, but simply knowing that within two weeks he could change the man's disposition into such a reverse was more rewarding than any tangible pat on the back. 

To respond with similar compassion would have made both parties too uncomfortable, and neither wanted nor expected a heartfelt reply.  When he smirked and arched a brow the tension dissipated.  As his eyes screamed his thanks, his mouth returned, "Right.  That's a good idea.  Because we don't _already _look like a pair of bloody poofters."        

The Watcher grinned.  "I suppose you have a point.  We don't want to over-emphasize our relationship.  I should have thought.  You know, I can hardly stand the sight of you."

There was nothing in his tone to convince.  William snickered and nodded.  "Oh, I know, mate.  I'm the Big Bad, after all.  Can't like me."  Then, with a significant breath, he looked down, smile fading away.  "I hope you don't mind, though, if I look up to you from time to time."  

So it was to be.  A cordial exchange followed immediately by a quick stab of banter to avoid a scorn on male pride.  The look on Giles's face was more confirmation than he knew to trust with any language to portray.  

The silence was cut only a goodhearted smile.  William snickered in spite of himself.  "Right, then.  Hate you, too, Ripper.  Can't stand the bloody sight of you."

Unaffected, the Watcher chuckled.  "Likewise."

Despite the pleasantries, it would be conceivably easier for both parties if the vampire acted as he should by nature.  Rather—as normal as Spike could.  The development of sentiment would only stand in the way, and neither could afford to forget the impending circumstances if one or the either lapsed.

Still, he was believed.  William knew not to let the implicated residency of faith wear his ideals for reform—he understood that was not Giles's motive, and would play if it were so.  He accepted there would never be a full redemption.  That no one would ever truly forgive him—that he would never forgive himself.

The soul was there to stay.  Regardless if he ever found a place within his sacrament to seek out complacency—it was his.  He could not lose it by obtaining true happiness, and would not be concerned if that were so.  The dry state of being he inhabited was a place so far from happiness that he doubted he would ever again feel its warmth.

"So, couch then," he said, indicating the waiting sofa with a jerk of his head.  "Don't suppose you have any Wheatabix, do you?"  When the Watcher arched a skeptical brow at him, William could not resist an eye roll.  Would the comparisons ever end?  A growl lodged in his throat.  "Bloody hell.  Yes—I still eat Wheatabix.  Still thinks it gives my diet texture.  I still smoke, and I still watch _Passions.  _I still drink blood and would prefer the bona fide human over pig's any day.  Not to say I would take it, even if I did get this sodding chip out of my skull.  Couldn't—have a bleeding soul.  Bleeding conscience.  Doubt even that ponce, Peaches, could say he'd prefer to drain an animal than taste the good stuff."  He huffed significantly, chest constricting as his body struggled with the preemptory need for air that he stored in empty lungs.

Silence again.  Once more, the contempt he expected to reflect behind Giles's eyes never came.  How many times would he speak out of turn and be forgiven?  William knew not to press his luck, but his wits were tested in the same manner every time he opened his mouth.   And yet, the Watcher had not shown him hostility since that first day.  Every word that came from his mouth was patient and understanding, harsh at times but not without compassion.  

This time was no different.  With a frown, Giles stepped forward, crossing his arms.  "You have my support, William," he said softly, as though that was the issue at hand.  "I understand you are not Angel.  I understand that your circumstances differ considerably.  I would to engage in research—but there might not be an explanation.  You just might be the one vampire in history who kept more of his soul than lost when you were sired."  He sighed meaningfully.  "My first instinct is always research.  However, in this instance, I believe I know to leave well enough alone.  What you are—whatever you are, is enough.  You are not Spike—I would not have invited you in if you were.  You are also not William.  With the restoration of your soul, I believe the balance was settled.  The man within you had been surfacing for a year in full before it was allowed this second chance, and I can see that now.  The demon was beaten back by the man to the point where they were forced to live together and not wrestle for dominance."  Another heavy pause; Giles removed his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of his shirt.  "I…we—and I use this term lightly…we _befriended _the man over time and could not accept it.  How could we?  How could anyone who has not seen you before now?"  Then, without any warning or conclusion, the Watcher reached for the remote, flicked his seldom-used television on, and tossed William the controller.  "Wheatabix is in the kitchen.  Do try to not eat all of it."  

It began and ended quickly.  Before the vampire could attempt to conjure up any form of reply, Giles was gone, retiring to his bedroom with a subtle shut of his door.  The telling turning the lock was singular only that the undead guest understood the quest for undisturbed privacy. 

To the empty room, William blinked in growing confusion.  "This has been a bloody weird month," he concluded.


	4. Interview With A Vampire

**Chapter Three**

For any vampire to sleep more than four hours undisturbed was unheard of in the modern day.  More than enough research had cued Giles in to the normal sleeping gestations, and he marveled at his houseguest who remained unmoved, even when the coffee cup shattered against the kitchen floor.  It had been a while, he supposed, since the vampire received adequate accommodations for rest.  William remained pretty much dead throughout the morning—despite the Watcher's uninhibited execution of all rituals.  He made breakfast, read the paper, ran the shower and shaved.  Even the telling flick of the telly could not perturb the dead man's slumber.

A bizarre sense of déjà vu had grasped him upon seeing William sprawled across the couch.  It was stranger than bursting into song unwittingly.  It was an all-around time warp.

Then the phone cut through the air with a shrill.  Giles leapt a foot in surprise, making a mad dash for the kitchen.  The receiver clutched closely to his chest, he hazarded another glance at his unconscious company.  William had purred slightly and rolled over.  Nothing more.  Heaving a sigh, he shook his head in amazement and clicked the connect dial on the phone.  "Hello?"

Whoever he thought to expect—there was no way he could prepare for the onslaught of surprise.  As if the atmosphere within the studio apartment wasn't awkward enough, the fates decided to throw her in the mix.  He berated himself for not anticipating it.  Life, thus far, was proving to be a raging sitcom.

"Hi, Giles!" she said chirpily.  "What's up?"

The aftershock of astonishment had yet to wear off.  "Bu—" He looked wearily William, who stirred slightly in his sleep.  If nothing else were to wake him up, it certainly would be the sound of her name, regardless whether it was whispered or shouted.  "Good morning.  What—umm—is anything wrong?"

"Nothing.  I…oh, God…is it like midnight there or something?  I didn't think…did I wake you up?"

"No."  The Watcher eyed the snoozing vampire again.  Still asleep.  "No…I'm just surprised.  You haven't…ummm…I just left yesterday.  There isn't anything wrong, is there?"

There was an artificial huff of air, carrying the tenor of being terribly offended.  "What?  Can't I call my former watcher just to—"

Giles smiled dryly.  "Buffy…" he scolded softly.  

Wrong thing to say.  William's eyes popped open.  With sudden urgency, he bolted upright and sought the Watcher's gaze, his own shrouded in confusion.  He understood immediately what had disturbed his sleep, but…

His eyes widened as he observed the phone, a look of the most remarkable pain Giles had ever seen overcoming his features.  Beyond reasoning, he portrayed the vestige of a man whose entire world had been torn from his grasp.  As though some sadistic soul had intently murdered his family, mutilated their bodies, and sent him the picture.

As though Jenny Calendar had died all over again, only a thousand times worse.

Giles did not know how he could endure that.  Have the woman he love alive and well, and hating him.  And then he couldn't do it—couldn't confirm that it was she one the phone.  It was meager compensation, but the most he could offer.  Clearing his throat, the Watcher shook his head.  "Ummm…right.  It's just been, as you can imagine, a while sense you called—" 

Fortunately for both of them, she remained blissfully oblivious to the searing tension emanating from the other line.  "Well, I really can't lie to you, can I?  I'm worried—"

"What is it?"  Giles raised his eyes to William once more, who stalked forward in a steadfast, broken manner.  Though it was manifest that he did not crave sympathy, to ignore a creature of such raging pain was cruel and inhumane.  He blurted the first invention he could into the receiver, though he knew not for whose benefit.  "Taxes?  Trouble with the IRS?"

It was the first cover that came to mind and succeeded in halting the vampire's approach and silencing the befuddled slayer.  A grimace wrestled his features, but he held it at bay, determined to take the route constructed—however poorly.

"Ummm…" Buffy said after a minute, throwing it all to waste.  Silence was shattered by her voice, and his face fell along with it.  "No…I have all the help I need in that department, but thanks for checking up.  You're a real pal."

"Right then.  What is it you need?"  Giles shot an apologetic look the vampire's way, one that screamed, 'I tried!'  The hurt in William's face was replaced with confusion and gratitude.  With a huff of ineffectual air, he shook his head and smiled sadly.  

"Don't worry about me, Ripper," he assured him.  "Like I couldn't avoid it.  Bollocks.  If I'm gonna help her, I need to come to terms with the fact that she exists somewhere in the world.  She's your girl—your slayer.  You can't avoid talking to her."

The Watcher smiled at his humility, touched and continuously impressed with the characteristics that were so similar but split in half.  "Thank you," he whispered.

"Giles?"  The tiny voice prodded him away.  "Giles!  Who's there?  Who—"

William's eyes widened and he moved away from the phone with a fury, as though distance alone was the decisive factor in his imminent identification.

"My…umm, cousin is here to visit," Giles invented rapidly, catching the vampire's gaze, eyes blaring in warning.  "Fitzwilliam.  Yes.  I've told you about—"

"Probably," Buffy said dismissively, eliciting a sigh of relief from the two men.  William put on a frontage of endurance, straining his keen hearing to savor her voice—distorted by static but still as sweet.  "Listen, we have…not necessarily a _problem, _but…"  They both heard her frustrated growl.  "I don't even see why he's having me call you.  Willow and Anya are on the entire research thing.  They haven't found anything extraordinary, but Xander insisted I call you to get your opinion."  There was a brief pause.  "Does your cousin know about the family business?"

Giles blinked.  "Pardon?"

"Vampires?  The whole slayage thing?"

"Oh." He chuckled nervously.  "Yes, yes.  In fact, Fitzwilliam was training in the Watcher's Guild before the Council…" At seeing William's eyes widen at the implication, he trailed off, ignoring the questioning look.  "He's a curator of a library around here."

"Wow.  Like cousin like…cousin."  They both grinned at her—William's features empowered by almost boyish sheepishness.  It was the sort of expression that read, 'All those little inconsistencies are just so…darn cute!'

Even still, Giles did not regret lying to him.  The trip back home had been keen with stress and tension.  Everyone welcomed Willow back with smiles and open arms.  They were especially cautious—had removed and destroyed all things Wiccan from the Summers' residence.  Pictures of Tara remained but in scarcity.  The first few days were the worst—everyone was on pins and needles, watching Willow as though she was a time bomb waiting to explode.

Xander took care of her.  In Anya's absence, he had admitted that his apartment was bare and lonely.  Now in the stages of recovery, they were especially close.  The few outings to the Bronze had proven as much—Willow had not allowed him out of arms reach all night.

However, with all his love for Willow, Xander could not resist a garb at the missing vampire. Bitterness coated his tone, and while he spoke out of line, it was understandable.  The entire foundation of understanding in his strange little world was based on the knowledge that Buffy hated Spike, would never, ever sleep with him, and that Anya was his reserve only.  One night had taken that safe hold away forever.  "You know," he had said, not at all discreetly.  "I really like this.  Just us.  No annoying non-pulsers lurking around.  Almost like old times."

Giles had immediately looked to Buffy for reaction.  While there was nothing to condone Xander's presumptions, she similarly did not rush to the absentee vampire's defense.  Rather, her eyes went off in that dark way they had so often in the past year, a quiver seizing her lips.  The Watcher had seen his slayer cry before and had long ago memorized all the characteristics that preceded an outburst.  Fortunately, no one else was aware of her mood swing and thought nothing of it when she excused herself and made a dash for the ladies' room.  

It was the only event that merited consideration was far as William was concerned.  Giles had purposely withheld—he hadn't been certain until the night before that the vampire's intentions were as pure as he claimed.  Now there was no point in sharing.  It would only wound him further, and William, as loathed as he was to admit it, did not deserve further heartache.  The hell he inhabited now was enough retribution for the wrongs of the past.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked, attentively avoiding the use of her name.  Every time it was spoken, a barb struck William in the heart.  And yet he was not reduced to dust as he so plainly craved.  Instead, he was made to tolerate reference after reference, and rendered him helpless to do anything that was asked him upon mention.

"Well," she mused thoughtfully.  "Normal stuff, really.  God, I'm so glad to be getting back to the normal stuff.  Patrol last night—the usual places.  Ran into your basic run-of-the-mill vamp.  You know—not too bright but fangy in all the right places?  Didn't appear anything special.  Got a couple of good garbs.  Made him bleed.  After I dusted him, I went home and cleaned up and…"

William had neared again, stilling his body to deathly perfection.  Giles waved him back a few paces ineffectually and encouraged Buffy to continue.

"Well, this is gonna sound really weird…his blood was black."

"Black?"  The Watcher echoed, looking to the vampire questioningly and was rewarded with a shrug.  "Uh, ummm…are you sure it wasn't a trick of light or—"

"Giles."  There was sharpness in her tone—the voice she only used when she meant business.  "Honestly, how long have I been doing this?  Eight years now?  I think I know what blood looks like in the dark.  This was like…oil.  Oily blood.  Any clues?  Ideas?  Research or whatnot?"

Another look at William confirmed a non-standing perspective.  "No ideas off the top of my head, but I will look into it.  Call again if anything of a similar nature happens."

"Right.  Will do."

With a smile, Giles placed the phone back on the receiver.  Without looking up, he gauged the reaction from his suitemate.  Helpful but devastated.  He would have liked to comfort William and assure him all would be well, but that meant to sacrifice pride for the sake of false hope, and he wouldn't do that to anyone.

And, of course, there was Buffy to consider.  Buffy who possessed more of his loyalty than William could ever hope to touch.

Undeniably, the vampire before him was not even a shadow of what Angel had been.

William smiled sadly and shrugged.  "S'all right, Ripper.  Like I said, had to happen sooner or later.  Better sooner.  Makes it easier to deal with.  If I'm gonna help, I gotta get used to it."

The Watcher frowned and started to say something, but thought the better of it and nodded.  "You better start getting ready," he observed.  "I arranged your meeting with the administration last night after you retired.  We will need to leave in an hour and a half."

The vampire scoffed and shook his head, gesturing to the shut window with arched brows.  "Uhhh…something tells me that won't be setting anytime soon.  Air still stinks of sunrise."

"You've maneuvered in daylight before," Giles returned.  "Much to everyone's dismay."

"Right.  That'll make a fucking-a good impression if I run into the bleeding library before bursting into flames."

"You're going to have to.  This is how people conduct business, Will."

William snickered.  "Right.  I see.  You know, my internal clock is going to be all wonky.  I'm used to sleeping through the day, mate.  Not getting up to pick out neckties."

There was a wry smile.  "What can I say, Spike?  I'll do everything in my power to make a man out of you, even if it kills me."       

The words escaped with such ease that it took a minute to digest.  All at once, Giles reddened and looked away, clearing his throat and casting his eyes downward.  "Mmm…my apologies.  I didn't mean to insinuate—"

"But you did," William observed, stepping forward.  "You meant it.  I want you to mean it.  Like it or not, mate, you're the only sodding chance I got of making it here.  I'm not used this.  Well, I'm used to _not _killing, but not to all these bleeding warm fuzzies.  To knowing I _wouldn't _jump your bones and suck you dry if I had half a chance."  He cleared his throat and looked away.  "Because I…" Cough.  Titter.  Twitch.  _"Ilikeyou."_

He spoke so quickly—buried under an avalanche of reluctance—that it was impossible to catch in one breath.  What was said was beyond the lines of probability, but it sounded too…

"What was that?" Giles whispered, awestruck.

There was a growl.  "I said I like you!  God, bloody hell, you need me to spell it out?  You gave me a chance when you coulda—and let's face it—shoulda walked away.  And now with all this…" Frustrated, he grasped at his heart and screamed.  "Sodding soul!  Bleeding chip!  I don't know what I am anymore.  There should be more than this, right?  More than regret and guilt.  Bugger it all.  What am I s'ppsed to do?  Make my sodding peace—yeh—then what?  I'm so new at this.  It feels familiar, but it's the same old thing.  It hurts so bloody much, Ripper.  Like tiny soldiers knit-knacking away at my insides."

"It's supposed to, Spike," Giles replied softly, his own voice having to elevate to be emphasized in the same degree.  "You chose and you have your reward.  No one said that it's going to be easy.  No one agreed that it _should _be easy.  I've given you a chance—perhaps against my better judgment—but that doesn't mean it's going to be easy sailing.  After what you have done…"

Darkness glazed over his eyes and his entire being quaked with impact.  "I need no bloody reminders about what I've done."

"I know."  And he did.  Truthfully, Giles understood the cruelty of making mention of past indiscretions for spite.  Out of all feasible punishments, it was the one he did not deserve.  "I'm just saying…these coming months are going to be difficult.  I have reason to believe that you might be more deeply affected by your acquisition than Angel was.  You seem to be able to differentiate the line between yourself and your demon whereas he never could, but you have admitted that you committed many of your atrocities yourself, or that you were at least implied.  You might never fully recover, but as long as you try, I can expect no more."

The morning progressed as normally as it could.  William made use of the shower as Giles overviewed the agenda.  Clothing selections were a minimum—the Watcher and the vampire were of similar height, but William was practically skin and bones.  All the proffered attire hung off his body like a parachute.

"Bloody hell, yah wanker," he muttered, glancing into the mirror that reflected nothing in the room.  "You're bigger than you look."

There was a pregnant pause when the Watcher walked in.  Their gazes caught and held before Giles burst out laughing.  It was too much.  The image of the Big Bad in an oversized tweed jacket, long dangly necktie, and baggy dress pants resembled some horrid circus attraction. 

 Discouraged by the reaction, the vampire rolled his eyes and scoffed proudly, reaching to straighten his tie.  The ensemble was truly ridiculous, but there was nothing else.  It was too late to run out for last minute shopping and there was no way anyone would hire him if he sported those black jeans and spandexy top.  This was it.  "That's right.  Laugh at the neutered vamp.  I'm dressed up like this for her and you…mostly her, you bloody ponce.  Least you can do is let me walk out of 'ere with my dignity."

"You mean, when you rush out of here with a blanket over your head?"

William smirked at him.  "Is it too late to take back my self-righteous speech?  I've gone back to hating you."

Giles rumbled with light chuckles and offered a nod.  "All right.  Out with you.  Might as well pick up some breakfast on the way, unless you've filled yourself up on Wheatabix."

In front of him, the vampire paused in mid-stride and pivoted to arch a brow at him.  "Hullo?  Have you gone all loony?  I'm always peckish."  At the implication, his mouth twisted into a familiar grin and his eyes danced.  "One way or another."

There was a brief silence at the unvoiced inference that couldn't help but tag along with the statement—and both grins were wiped from their faces.  When the air threatened to become uncomfortable, William coughed and turned again, continuing down the hallway.  "This isn't a good idea," he said casually, attempting with futility to hide the quake in his voice.  "I highly doubt you've had your windows tinted for a man with my skin condition."

"This windows _are _tinted—the sunlight will be indirect only."

William snickered.  "Well, well.  How handy.  So I might only explode a little.  Thanks for thinking of me, mate."

"Quiet," the Watcher admonished as he slipped on his jacket.  They stopped outside where the sun struck the curb.  Immediately, the vampire brought an arm up to shield his eyes, fighting the urge to hiss at the unwanted light.  Giles arched a brow at him.  "If you're going to be like this, I won't take you by the butcher shop."

The sudden blaze behind William's eyes informed him that he was touched by the notion, but arrogance stood in the way of returning with any sort of thanks.  "I see.  Dress me up like a poof, burn me to a crisp, but gimme a nummy treat to make up for it."  His words were a direct contradiction to the gratitude seething in the hidden layers of his tone.  The elevation to admitting he liked the Watcher was enough of the aforementioned _warm fuzzies _for one morning.  Or lifetime.  "But the tummy is making some rumblies, so let's go."

Thankfully, William had turned away before the other man's smirk could burn into his back.  

There were upsides to this arrangement.  In broad daylight, all he had to do was follow the smoke.

"Hurry up!" the panicky vampire yelped, performing an impressive hop dance outside the passenger window.  "My blanket's beginning to fry!"

"Just out of curiosity," Giles said calmly as he strode up and unlocked the door, pausing long enough for William to bolt inward.  "What happened to your duster?"

An emotional pause—the Watcher identified the resignation easily, regarded the telling fall of his eyes and the lower lip that quivered whenever she was in any means concerned in their discussions.  The answer was coming, but not for a minute.  With a sigh, Giles closed the door and made his way to the driver's side.  Despite the promised darker tinting, he found William in the backseat, cradled beneath his blanket before the door had a chance to shut.

By the sharp, unnecessary intakes of breath, Giles could tell his answer was not forthcoming.  The car pulled out and was a quarter mile down the street before dialogue broke the silence.  His voice was sullen, as though he was speaking to himself.  "Bet she burned it."  A desolate sound—barely above a whisper.  "Wouldn't bloody blame her."

There was nothing else.  The Watcher exhaled and offered no reply, resigning himself as always to the recesses of his thoughts.  That was what had been different about her.  It looked so odd on anyone else.  He had long ago grown accustomed to her hauling around that jacket Angel gave her so many years ago, but hadn't been able to identify her new coat until he was halfway across the ocean.  None of the Scoobies had taken note of it, and if they hadn't by then, chances were they never would.

"You left it at her house, then?"

"Just drive, you sodding ponce."  There was an uncomfortable twitch followed by a long silence.  He cleared his throat.  "Could we not talk about this, Ripper?"

"Of course."

The air fell silent once more, void of discussion.  There was nothing left to say.  

*~*~*

"I can see now why you wanted me in this job," William observed, turning down another isle of books, nodding toward the sunshine pouring in through numerous skylights.  "Move a bleeding foot in the place and I'll add to the dust."  With a crooked brow, he shot Giles a weary look.  "Remind me again why I'm the one being interviewed.  This really seems to be more your department."

"Because, believe it or not, I have a job.  And you were just last night discussing the nobility of paying with your own hard-earned money."

"I said I didn't want to mooch, I never said—"

The Watcher silenced him with a look, removing his glasses and waving away the cloud of dirt hovering over the volume he had just closed.  "Some miscellaneous recovery work for the Council.  I'm supposed to…well…recover.  Our last endeavor wasn't as—"

"I heard.  Everything went all wacky.  And you're helping them because…?"

"Same reason you're here," Giles replied, hands finding his pockets.  "Because I believe it will eventually help her.  Help _them—_Willow and the rest.  As it is, you likely won't be required to do much around here.  During day lit hours, you can settle yourself in the curator's apartment or do something helpful—like study the manuscripts downstairs.  This vampire that attacked Buffy, for starters.  Anything coming that would make its blood turn black.  I can manage everything else."

William snickered, unable to conceal the strain that crossed his face to hear her name.  It would take some conditioning.  "What makes you so sure I'll get the job?"

"Well, other than blind luck, as long as you refrain from calling the administrators 'bloody ponces' or 'a useless lot of poofters'…your credentials—those I forged in addition to your knowledge of history—are impeccable."

"You shouldn't talk like that, mate," the vampire returned with a leer.  "It's bloody disrespectful."

But the Watcher's focus was driven elsewhere.  Heaving a sigh, he turned away to estimate the size of the room.  A gallery of books could be seen in every direction.  It was much grander than the position he had once held in Sunnydale, and something told him these editions would not simply waste away with only their eyes to seek higher knowledge.

"Bollocks," came from behind.  "I'm going to get lost every time I turn around in 'ere."  An exaggerated pause.  "So where are these ponces?  Don't they know how to keep a date?"

"Spike, I know patience isn't a virtue where you're concerned, but—"

"But nothing!  I get all dressed up like a sodding poofter to meet the wankers, and if I didn't know better, I—"

A throat cleared behind them and the room grew deathly still.  "Good afternoon, gentlemen," a stuffy voice grumbled.  With deliberate slowness, the vampire and the Watcher turned.  If he had a pulse, William would have turned an interesting shade of red.

Once satisfied that he had their attention, the pudgy little man turned and directed over his shoulder.  "The others are inside the foyer.  If you would follow me…"  

They fell into step quickly—too embarrassed to opt for anything else.  Through a confusing labyrinth of isles and dusty titles, they maneuvered.  It was nearly a surprise when the maze ended, even more so when Giles abruptly seized William by the collar and jerked him back.

The meeting room was completely encompassed with fiery skylights—the table inconveniently position in the center.  A large ray displayed heavenly across the mahogany, bouncing off balding heads and hitting the vampire directly in the eyes.  He bit his tongue to wan away a scream but couldn't help the loud—"BLOODY HELL!"—from escaping his lips.  It was the most primal of reactions and he was its slave, powerless to do anything but obey.

The sound of heavy Cockney filled the room, not echoing away until every pair of eyes was fixated on him in appalled surprise.  Even then, the walls and volumes seemed to capture its hum, holding for prolonged seconds before everything once again fell to silence.

William, however, was not paying attention.  His hand—oddly not decorated with trademark black nail polish—was caressing the blind spot over the ridge of his nose, comforted by an agitated Giles who pat his back reassuringly.

A sea of blank faces was still waiting for an explanation when attention was finally averted.  The vampire might have had the decency to look mortified if he wasn't preoccupied by a sudden headache.  

Giles cleared his throat—seeing he would receive no support—and turned to their waiting audience.  "Ummm…my cousin has a rather serious skin condition.  He reacts violently to direct sunlight.  Is there any way this meeting could resume elsewhere?"

A disgruntled murmur sprang through the crowd before they decided to comply.  Each shot William a rather nasty look before exiting. The agitated vampire ignored them with grave disinterest, his consideration with the Watcher.  He had so wanted to do a good job and had the irreplaceable feeling that he had already messed everything up beyond the brink of no return.  "Don't ask me how I know this," he grumbled, attempting unsuccessfully to gauge his reaction.  "But I think that just buggered up my chances."

To his surprise, Giles wasn't as dissatisfied as his frontage would portray.  Instead, he offered a grim headshake and shrugged.  "Don't be too soon to dismiss yourself," he retorted, his sentiments too easily discerned.  "They haven't heard you speak yet."  At that, he paused and cracked a good-natured though concerned smile.  "Take that back.  We _are _doomed."

"Bleeding sunlight," William sneered, hopping artfully to avoid another beam.  "I thought libraries were supposed to be dark and musty."

"That's the stereotype, Spike."

"I like the sodding stereotype.  Fits my character.  Has a nice 'no dusty' policy that comes along with it."

"For heaven's sake, lower your voice." 

The attic—the least likely place to hold a meeting of this nature.  The only place where they were guaranteed no natural light.  It was amusing to see a group of suits hovering over crates.  William had not fully recovered from his sunlight excursion and to refrain from rubbing his eyes.  Something told him it was unprofessional.

_Sod professional.  It's over before it started._

A minute adjustment passed before the first cleared his throat and began.

"Now…that we're all comfortable…" There was unnecessary emphasis at the end of the sentence, which the vampire decided to ignore.  "What is your full name?"   

"William…ummm…" Somehow, he didn't believe 'the Bloody' would cut it with these gents.  With quick desperation, he glanced at Giles and invented, "Ripper.  William Ripper."

The Watcher threw his head back and moaned lightly to himself.  No one seemed to notice.

Amused by the concealed burst of what _had _to be pride, William smirked and added, "the second.  William Ripper II."

"Right."  One of the administrators tossed Giles a discreet, disbelieving glance.  "Now then, Mr…Ripper.  Tell me, why do you believe you would be the correct choice to fill this position?"

William had never been to an actual interview before.  Vampires, by common knowledge, didn't attempt to incorporate themselves into conventional society.  He knew Angel ran that investigations shindig like only Angel would, but this was different.  An actual bona fide job.  Something anyone could do.  Something to fit the shoes of Joe Average.  Honest money to buy his own goods with.  That was, of course, assuming he had the qualifications as set by this lot of poofters.  The questions were ridiculously simplistic—allegedly conjured up by some brain behind a big desk who probably didn't have to do a lot of his own thinking.  Everything they asked was known territory in the land of demonhood.  He indulged in lengthy accounts of both notable and unknown historical events.  Those he hadn't witnessed had long ago been crammed into his cranium by over zealous parents who had wanted him to do something with his life.

_Oh yes.  Wouldn't mum be proud now?_

There was, of course, the part of history only known to his kind and the hunters of his kind.  It took a bit of stamina to separate what was conventionally recognized and what was fact.  What the history booked cleverly omitted from record.

None of this, however, seemed to matter in the end.  Despite his knowledge and qualifications, the board members were unmoved.  None warmed up to him, even if he gave a particularly scholarly answer.  The only confirmation he had to know he wasn't digging himself into a larger trench than he could afford was the continuous stream of approving nods coming from the Watcher in the back.

"You are aware of the loopholes in your background?" one of the suits asked.  "You claim to have been born in 1969, but there is no birth certificate."  They hadn't had time to get all the goods just yet.  William's counterfeit citizenship was slow in the making.  "And you were allegedly educated at Oxford.  There is no record of your attending there during any of the specified dates on your résumé."  The man flashed a PR smile for good sport.  "We can't lie to you—there's a psychiatrist with an absolutely flawless record to his credit competing for this job.  Why should we hire you, a man of rather ambiguous background—not to mention serious skin condition, in this place?  There are no flaws in his qualifications, and he knows his material more thoroughly than any man I have ever met."

William's fists curled tightly at his sides.  Ignorance could be a bliss, but it tasted foul along with natural stupidity.  There was no one who could beat him in qualifications for this job, unless it was Peaches or some other demon.  But that was impossible.  Demons by nature were thieves—if they wanted something, they took it.  No questions asked.  It was what they did.  But to make an honest living?  An honest _normal _living?  He had to be the first in history.  Simply the prompting urged him to release his demon and show them exactly why he was preferable over any sodding shrink.  Just a little show and tell for the nice men.  And he couldn't bite them if he wanted to…no harm done.

A look from Giles confirmed that his thoughts had been read, and that it was in the worst manner of approach.   He had to swallow a grumble.  _Fine then, mate.  The hard way._

"Ummm…well…" There was no sure way to get around this.  "I can't offer anything concrete, I'll admit.  But—I, of, bloody hell.  What I can give you…I know I know more than this poof.  I can't tell you how, but…" William growled.  He was slipping—badly—and he knew it.  "Unless you really want…" Desperately, his eyes shot back to Giles for permission.  Pleading.  

When he received no instruction, the vampire took that as the go-ahead.  There was no way he could bugger this up any more for himself—might as well go all out.  With a primordial, throaty growl, he jumped to his feet and flexed.  "You wanna know why I'm your man?" he hissed.  "This is why."

Before Giles could leap forward, before he could raise his voice in opposition, William's human vestige melted away and the demon emerged.  It felt weird at first—he hadn't had cause to morph in over two months.  And yet here was.  Unchanged in so many ways.  William the Bloody—Spike—growling deeply as his yellow eyes flickered over the wave of mortified faces.  _"This _is why.  Because I, you sodding buffoons, am the…well, neutered Big Bad.  I've lived history, mate.  I've been there.  I've tasted it.  I've—"

"You're…" One of the men was so startled by the transformation that he had fallen backward over a few crates.  "Not human.  You're—"

"A vampire."  He nodded.  "Right, git.  But I'm a, well, not _good _vampire, but I haven't been bad for a while."  William looked desperately to Giles, who was muttering incoherently to himself while cradling his head in shame.  

"Like I was saying," the vampire continued.  "I'm right for this job because of who I am, because of what I've seen.  What I've _done.  _Tell them, Ripper!  Tell 'em everything!"

"It's true," the Watcher said firmly, voice angry but compliant.  He answered with unexpected rapidity.  "Spike—William, rather, has a chip in his head that prevents him from feeding on humans."  When the vampire cleared his throat, Giles irately rolled his eyes and added, "Oh.  Yes.  He has a soul, as well.  He's comparable to an immortal human in many regards.  As harmless as a puppy."  A flash crossed William's eyes, but he knew it was just.  In truth, these accusations of wholly goodness hadn't annoyed him for some time.  It was habit that made him react rather than will.  More over, he felt himself yearning for approval with every day that passed.  He saw that he had edged to the Watcher's sour side with his audacity and couldn't convince himself that he didn't care.  He did.  He cared a lot.

Thankfully, the weight measured equally on either side. The anger in Giles's tone was counterpoint to the growing comprehension.  Perhaps the slipup was forgivable.  The administration hadn't asked them to leave and had yet to decline William as a potential candidate.  Perhaps this position of power by suggestion could come in useful—only used for dire emergencies, of course.  On a softer note, the Watcher continued.  "William really is the best man for the job.  He is attempting to incorporate himself into society.  Who could be better for reference than someone who has _been _there?"  Irritation was vacating his eyes slowly, and William allowed himself an unneeded sigh of relief.  "I can vouch for his character.  Spike—Will—whatever has admittedly enjoyed as much mayhem as any other demon in his time, but for reasons unknown to me, he changed.  He has saved the lives of those he once considered his enemies as many times as he attempted to kill them, perhaps even more so.  He changed then and again.  Acquiring a soul was simply the next level."

The vampire smiled, touched.

A cautious voice dared make the first move.  "So…he won't attempt to—"

William shook his head and sat back conversationally.  "All right.  So I lied.  Haven't been the Big Bad for a few years.  I was in spirit the entire time, don't get me wrong."  He stopped himself to chuckle at the irony.  "In _spirit," _he repeated to himself, shaking his head dryly.  A look of warning from Giles sent him back on topic. "Anyway, I mean, for a while I still tried to do bad, evil things.  But that ended about two years ago.  I've been—well—" Even soulful Spike had difficulty with the terminology.  "Bugger, I need to accept it.  I've been a bloody boy scout ever since.  I got me a soul.  Even endured torturing from a bitch Hell-goddess without telling her what she wanted, and—"

"Fine!" the head suit said hurriedly.  "I don't need any more convincing.  You got the job."

William grinned.  "Cor, mate.  You don't hafta plunder outta 'ere.  I was just listing my qualifications, since you asked.  If ya wanna—"

"Spike," Giles said sharply.  "You're still in game face."  

The smirk was stolen from his lips.  "Oh. Right.  Sorry about that."  The contours of his face relaxed and masked over once more as human.  An audible breath rippled through the men, who were slightly pale on a collective whole.  One in particular was studying him hard, as though still uncertain.

William rolled his eyes.  "Look, I'm not going to eat you if you wankers don't hire me.  Wouldn't even if I didn't have a pretty piece of silicon lodged in my head.  I was a good vampire—best to my ability; got the sodding job done before the change—and even a good man, once.  Long time ago, true, but that little prat is somewhere within me.  Here."  He tapped on his chest—a habit becoming more and more secondary.  "Like Ripper says, I know more about any bloody historical event than whatever educated doc you have on the list.  I've lived it—don't need schoolin'. Gimme a chance at least.  If yah don't like, you can fire me, and I _still _won't eat you.  Just tell me somethin' real.  I need work."

"You got the job," the same man warily acknowledged.  "All right?  Just…for god's sake, shut up!  Good lord, is there a mute button on this rambling buffoon?"

"Believe me," Giles chimed in.  "I've looked."

However, little attention was paid to the side commentary.  The head administrator squared his eyes levelly with William's and he said courageously, "Don't make us regret this."

The vampire issued one of his patented cocky grins and leered victoriously at the Watcher.  "No worries, mate.  I don't intend to."

*~*~*

After dark, the library obtained that highly sought stuffy feel, as if all the pages of the numerous volumes decided to mend together.  The administrators had left hours before in a humorous frenzy, all conjuring up falsities of other priorities to tend to.  William was issued the key to his curator's apartment as well as a brief though edited guideline to etiquette expectations.  Despite the frequent claims of integrity, most of the board members remained on pins and needles around him—half-expecting him to reveal his demon at the slightest prompting.   

Knowing the position was his, honestly, no less, gave William a sense of accomplishment he had never before experienced.  In his practice, if you wanted something, you went out and took it.  Didn't matter if it was held, owned, or loved by someone else.  The law didn't apply to demons, and the years had molded him into the craftiest pickpocket on either side of the Atlantic.  To stand in the middle of the library—the LIBRARY in all its musky goodness—and know that the employment he sought was his by honest means, by, ironically enough, being himself, made him swell with pride.  

"There now, Ripper," he said to Giles as he tested the door he had locked.  Sturdy as a post.  "And you were worried I'd bugger it'd up.  Tsk tsk tsk.  Next time, try to have a lil faith me, eh?"

The Watcher came into view, a thick ancient book cradled in the nook of his left arm.  He appeared engorged in the text, but William had seen this before.  Giles was perhaps the one man alive who could read, process unrelated information, and speak without confusing his thoughts.  When he had digested the concluding sentence, he made his soft reply without looking up.  "Mmm, yes.  You handled yourself brilliantly today, Spike.  You firstly made a fool out of yourself by not watching where you were stepping, then you scared the management into hiring you, else you eat their children in the dead of night."

William frowned.  "Hey, wait a sodding minute, you old git.  I—"

There was a sight not many had the privilege to witness.  A devious spread nether with Watcher's lips as he finally closed the book and glanced up.  "My, my, aren't you quick to jump to your defense?  Actually, I thought you did quite well today, Will.  I admit you have had better moments—(William Ripper II?)—but when things got rough, you did something that I never thought possible."

"What?"

"You told the truth."  Giles smiled kindly.  "Without prompt, at your own discretion.  _You _won yourself this job by being you.  Spike.  William.  Whoever you are.  You did yourself proud today."  There was a good-natured sigh as he slipped on his coat, moving for the front door.  "I suggest we hit the butcher's before they close."

A smile of pure pride anointed William's pleased expression.  Imagine, two nummy treats in one day!  With uninhibited eagerness, he tossed the keys into the air and caught them with a closed fist, turning to lock the door before slipping them into his pocket.  "That's me, all right," he decided smugly.  Then, without warning, he fell serious, running a hand through browning hair.  "Listen…ummm, Ripper.  I know things have been weird—"

"Spike, there's—"

"No.  Lemme say this."  He huffed out a breath.  It was odd watching William at times.  Unlike other vampires, it was easy—it had been easy for a long while—to forget that he didn't need food like humans do, that air was optional and water was just as effective if left alone.  Regardless of his abbreviated list of needs, he always indulged in additional pleasures.  Breathing came as naturally to him at times as it did Ripper or any mortal—he often felt he might fall over dead if he didn't inhale quickly.  Human food was a delight he would not soon give up.  _Gives the blood texture, _he had explained a lifetime before.  

It was easy to forget he was dead.     

"You took me in when you didn't hafta, old man.  After what I did…everything I did.  I've put you through hell more than once, I know.  Balls, I've put everyone I've ever encountered through hell."  His feet shuffled uneasily.  "I don't know…I haven't figured out where I end and Spike begins.  Things that I usta love have just lost all their…I'm—"

"Lost."  Giles's lips pursed.  "It's all right."

"No!  It's not!"  The words came violently; the Watcher blinked and stepped back in surprise.  "I mean…you've been so bloody damned nice to me since last night.  I know I 'aden't done nothin' to deserve it.  I'm a ponce, Ripper!  Wanderin' around, not knowing what's what or why anything's the way…'s just wonky, that's what it is."  He sighed again, heavily, chest constricting as though he needed the air he robbed from the earth in which to fill his lifeless lungs.  "It, and don't take this the wrong way, mate…it was almost easier for me when you were all Watcher like.  Defendin' her to the bleeding tenth degree, scrutinizin' every look I gave you in that way that screams, 'What is that sodding bastard thinking _now?'  _I'm suddenly worried that whatever comes out of my mouth might have serious consequences.  I know I'll never have your friendship, or even your trust.  I don't want it.  I don't deserve it."  Another long, exaggerated breath.  Where _did _he store all that air?  "But I'm afraid that one day you'll forgive me.  Forgive me fo' what I did to her.  What I've done to you."  A last pause for emphasis.  Clear blue eyes set into his with the coldest sincerity he had ever seen.  "You can't ever let yourself do that."

The request hit Giles like a bucket of ice water—stealing the air from his body.  There was no correct way to respond.  What was there to do?  Nod and confirm that forgiveness would never be an issue, so there was no point in even bringing it up?  True, the Watcher was a long way from ever considering clemency.  William might be himself now, but he was too much a shadow of Spike to ignore the past's numerous indiscretions.  Last night, he had stopped hating him.  Hating him for what he did to the girl he reflected as the daughter he never had, hating him for trying to kill the Scoobies over and over even when they offered friendship, hated him for being human without being alive.  For expressing more humanity than some people ever got around to revealing.  Hating him for loving her with such purity that it took two deaths and a rebirth for anyone—Giles, the least likely of the entire gang, to realize the feelings were genuine.  That a demon could love and feel his share of guilt.  That Spike might have been the offender, but he was also the savior of his own darkness.  He had left to change himself, and, for better or worse, here he was.  The man time and the past two years had made him into.  The man.  The _man.  _He had never thought of Spike as a man before, but with more moments like these, the notion didn't seem as far away.  It was near.  Tangible.  

But forgiveness?  How long had it taken him to forgive Angel for murdering his girlfriend?  For torturing him mercilessly?  Giles had the fuzzy memory of Spike rolling in and preventing Angelus from spilling his blood onto the carpet of the mansion.  He knew now, of course, that at the time, the vampire had been working in cahoots with Buffy and his motives were anything but pure.  He also knew that Spike had abandoned the slayer when he could have fulfilled his end of the bargain and kill Angelus.  

It was fortune for everyone that he hadn't.  Even then, however, he had splayed his humanity.  His tough, impenetrable humanity.  Giles knew Spike could never be good simply for the effect of being good, but what did it matter as long as he was?  His love for Buffy had morphed him into something none of them were prepared for.  A man.

And now, here he was.  Standing in all his suffering—the extended misery that would remain until the end of time for the knowledge of what he lost, what he could not have—begging the man who should have hated him never to forgive him of his crime.  William the Bloody.  

Giles exhaled slowly and regained his breath, shaking his head to wan away conflicting thoughts.  He stepped forward.  "Why?"

The returned question was unexpected—William had obviously thought to find no conflict in his request.  It seemed most natural, after all.  "Why?  Because I don't want anyone to.  I don't want forgiveness.  Yours will do me no good—I know I will never forgive _myself.  _Why should you?"

"Because that's what people do, Spike," the Watcher replied softly.  "We hurt, we bleed, we cry, we heal, and we forgive.  Sometimes it takes days, other times…well, a lot longer.  What you did to Buffy was terrible. _Terrible._ I know that.  I can't think of anything worse…anything that you could have done to violate her more than what you did.  But I also understand that you had no control over it, and that a part of you realized that at the time.  I won't fancy myself into believing you would have stopped yourself had she not.  We both know the answer to that.  You're a demon.  Demons hurt people.  It's what they're made for.  I know you tried to overcome that and weren't given the fairest chance.  You must realize that we were so accustomed to you trying to kill us that this New And Improved Spike was simply…an enigma.  You did really noble things as a demon.  You saved Dawn, Buffy, and the others countless times.  You would have given your life to Glory if you had had the chance."  A perceptible flinch from the bewildered vampire.  Giles could relate.  He had died that day and remembered well Spike's reaction.  A sullen sight—the broken-hearted, guilt-wrenched vampire, moping and sobbing, but protecting as he promised.  Ah, that was another thing.  "You kept your promises.  Buffy trusted your word as strongly as she trusted any man's.  But your inner nature was evil, it still is—you can't deny it.  Darkness courses through you as it does Angel, but you ignore it.  You mastered ignoring your dark side long ago.  So you see, Will, when you ask me never to forgive you, I can't say that I ever will, but I can't promise that I won't.  I'm not sure if that is the sort of thing you ever can forgive.  This is a unique situation—what hasn't been that we faced?  It's in the past.  You can't do over again, and I don't believe either of us could say things would go over differently even if that were an option.  What you can do is help her here.  Help her through me.  Help me watch her and protect her."  Giles sighed and stepped away to admire the building they had exited.  "You've braved yourself into things this far."

There was a short silence and a huff of air.  "It's hard," William said begrudgingly.  "Knowing I'll help her but never see her, and know it's what I deserve.  I deserve it, Ripper.  I bloody well know it, too.  I'm not gonna complain.  Just being allowed this…" He gestured meaningfully at the sky, arm waving toward the library.  "It's more than I coulda hoped for.  I don't deserve it."

"I know."  Cold, hard acceptance.  The vampire didn't deserve his chance at redemption, but here he was.  Weary, afraid, but willing.  "But try to, Spike.  Try to deserve it."

He snorted.  "Believe me, mate.  I've never _wanted _to deserve anything this badly in my entire existence."

The air fell silent and they walked.  Side by side.  Hands stuffed respectfully into their pockets.  One pair of eyes cast upward, the blue gaze fixed steadfast on the toes of his boots.  Both somnolent and cagey, both with one person in mind.  The girl that shared their similar affections.  Daughter to one and love of his life to the other.  

To them, the night breathed for her.  She resided an ocean away, and yet raised such angst wherever her name was mentioned.  She owned both their hearts and didn't realize it yet.  Didn't realize the magnitude of that devotion: the power that drove two very unlikely enemies to this state of awkward friendship and compliance.  That which prompted Giles to offer his couch one more night so William would not have to be alone.  


	5. Apocalypse 35768

**Chapter Four**

The first year of any new adjustment was supposed to be the hardest, and in many aspects, it was.  Settling in.  Conforming.  Surviving the first week alone nearly killed him.  True, the general populace was educated and prim, but William tended to more manuscripts and questioning than he knew could exist.  Books were not his forte; as a vampire, he had purposefully avoided ritual, trying to break away from the conformity that defined the demon moniker.  Surrounding himself with dusty titles was new but liberating.  He had even jotted a few verses of poetry into an empty notebook Giles provided him with in the instance that he found anything of use concerning the black vampire blood.

By the second week, Giles had arranged his schedule around library hours, performing his duties for the Council with less frequency.  William came to understand them as loose ends.  Tying up what he could while severing as many as possible.  

Little by little, attitudes began to differ.  

It amazed him that he hadn't found time for books as he did now.  Every page of every volume was filled with fascinating information—things his black demon heart would have loved to attempt, once upon a time.  It had nothing to do with ritual and everything to do with brazen fun.  Never had he suspected the two could be combined with such beneficial consequences. 

_It's a good thing, _he reflected late one evening, _that I can't lose this bloody soul.  Some of these things are just…neat._

He shuddered to think of how Angelus would have reacted to uncover such little treasures.  

Above ground living was another adjustment that took getting used to.  William could not recall the last time he slept comfortably in a regular bed.  The curator's apartment was modest and efficient.  He required little space and was rarely home as it was.  The library demanded all his time.  Many nights were spent in the solitude of the basement, pouring over passages and analyzing new threats of uprising evils.  Cryptic hints of what was—or what could be—approaching.

Things were quiet, though.  There was no mention anywhere of vampires that bled black blood, or the implications of what such could represent.  William concluded it was an isolated incident and explained to a rather disgusted Giles that the blood of the undead could possibly tint to match a variety of colors.  It depended on what they consumed, and if any other chemical imbalances were added to circulation.  

"You think I'm the only chap who likes gettin' a little somethin' on the side, mate?" he had drawled late one night, kicking his feet onto a bare library table as he plucked an unlit cigarette from his lips, reminded of the strict 'no smoking' policy.  "Don't fancy I ever told you that I fed off a flower child once.  Cor—it was amazing!  All the spinnies and sensations.  Nothing like the smokes, though.  As much fun as that was, I didn't like being out of control of myself.  Everything we eat, or consume, you see, will affect us somehow.  I remember Dru got sick—well, before she _got _sick—once after feeding on a bloke with sickle cell anemia.  Didn't last, o'course.  We feel the burn, but it doesn't bother us too long.  Some vamps love it—the newer ones, especially.  Those who were heavy on narcotics before they were turned, and even some who feed on druggies and get buzzed.  I've seen my blood, Ripper, and I know it's darker than what's 'normal.'  Dunno much about human blood, except that it's nummy, but I think it affects the undead differently.  In the end, I'd wager that Buffy stumbled onto a vampire that enjoyed all shorts of illegal goodies, and that's that.  Wouldn't make a big fuss unless it happens with more regularity."    

It was information he couldn't locate elsewhere.  Giles secretly congratulated himself on his new acquisition—the things he could learn from William!  Things that exceeded the text, the real grub of vampiric existence.  This new sliver of information was only the beginning: what didn't affect mortals could potentially advocate some irregular side effects for the undead.  He related his discovery to Xander, cautioning Buffy to be watchful, but not to worry unless the episode gained numerical value.  

Aside from the black-blood mystery, supernatural occurrences over the Hellmouth were surprisingly subdued.  There were demons, of course—things to slaughter on patrol, things to research, but no outstanding mutinous evil that demanded instant investigation and a quick solution.    

Contact was kept, of course.  Giles managed constant communication with Buffy, careful not to speak with her when William was around.  The vampire never again played houseguest but visited often, dropping off books and what-have-you, trading inside information and imploring for new projects.  Most of their time was spent at the library, and homes were considered the break needed from shop.  They were never what was conventionally thought of as _friends, _but understanding blossomed as time went on.  Little by little, William stopped hazarding concerned glances at the Watcher, worried that he had put his foot in his mouth and cost him their alliance.  With similar regularity, their discussions stopped visiting the terrain of the past and ventured to what the future held—rarely concerning Buffy even as her name hung above each conversation like a rain cloud willing to burst.  

His suffering didn't alleviate, but his ability to tolerate it progressed by leaps and bounds.  Soon he was able to smother it from his expression, tired of the people who approached and asked, _"What's wrong?" _in a manner that foretold nothing but meddlesome curiosity and the hope of good scandal.  

Watching people was still a favored pastime.  Those numbered evenings when his presence was not required with books and prophecy were spent at the café—watching life pass before his eyes and jotting down a few stanzas at a time.  It felt odd to want to write again.  He didn't believe his ear for poetry had improved any, but experience was the best sort of inspiration.  There was no mindless worry with rhyme schemes or technique; William discovered free verse and marveled in the ability to simply write and not worry with the mechanics of creativity.

The sense of satisfaction he received every time upon handing over his hard-earned wages in return for blood and Wheatabix never lost its stinging edge.   Giles had long ago shared some tedious tale of his first job and how it felt to see his name on a paycheck, but there was nothing compared to actuality.  The management was pleased with his work and efforts.  

"It's not simple," he told them once, during a routine evaluation.  "I dunno why I thought it would be.  Seemed easy 'nuff at the time.  Used to be a poet.  Yeh—long willy time ago.  It's comin' back to me as the days pass.  Whatever's me and whatever's…whatever anymore is so loopy.  Knew I loved books once—back when the blood actually pumped—but I spent a good century hatin' the sight of 'em.  I mean, books and more books—sod 'em all, you know?  Never thought I'd actually fancy a job where liking them's all important, but I do.  Stake me, I love it 'ere.  A lot more than I would've ever thought."  Then he had chuckled, leaning forward to draw a hand through his almost fully brown hair.  The tips remained highlighted, giving him reason to laugh at those who asked if he spent too much time in the sun. "Oh, bollocks.  Look at this!  Not even a year yet and you wankers have managed to pass me off as a sodding poof." 

The administration, over time, grew to appreciate his humor and harmless name-calling, and a few even became comfortable with his indisputable demon nature.  

He was definitely the least conservative curator the library had ever known, and he grew more popular by the regulars as days progressed.  Female students swarmed to tend to their studies if only to bask in his company and implore question after question of information they already had memorized.  Within the first two months, he had already memorized the layout of every skylight and recorded the times when the sun passed through with a direct beam.  It made travel around the floor plan quick and simple.   

Yes, the first year was the hardest.  It was also the quickest.  There was so much adjusting to do—so much to see and envelop.  An entire existence he never believed possible was at his fingertips.  Stacks of wistful sonnets and unfinished poems adorned empty closets and filled notebooks until the pages were worn and wrinkled.  Writing was an escape he never before fathomed.  He had enjoyed it long ago, yes—poured his worthless soul into poorly constructed cantos only to be mocked by society.  Now it served as a break.  Words no longer struggled for freedom; they came willingly, all the time, blasting him from place to place, rendering him powerless to do anything but obey.

However, with a relatively oblivious town resting atop a fiery Hellmouth, things could not hope to stay tranquil too long.  The day inevitably arrived when Xander's phone call was tainted with panic instead of the customary sense of unneeded obligation.  William was with Giles when the phone rang, cautious always to still to perfection in knowledge of whom the caller might be.  He stood near enough to hear, though.  It became habit.  Should Buffy or one of the Scoobies arise a question that merited vampiric opinion, he needed to be close enough to avoid a repeat.  

That day he could have been standing anywhere in the apartment and heard every word to eerie faultlessness.  Any time her name was mentioned, he drew himself in and listened with ardor he didn't know he possessed.  

"Listen," Xander was saying breathlessly, as though returning from a long jog.  "Buffy wanted me to call you.  I took her home a few minutes ago; she didn't want to upset Dawn.  It happened again.  That entire creepy: 'my blood is the essence of the dark side' thing.  Two vamps this time.  Scraped them both up before she got a chance to lay it to the ole stakey, and both of them just started…pouring this black goo everywhere."  Nothing moved within the apartment.  William was in the study researching, down the hall and a room away from the conversation, but he heard everything to painful articulation.  He waited for Giles to speak, but Harris started again, voice more than panicky.  "Here's the weird thing, G-Man, and let me know if it means anything to you.  It won't come out.  The blood.  It got all over her clothes and we scrubbed it together but it's like…like it's apart of the design, or something.  It…made a symbol."

"What?"  There it was—the telling eruption from a concerned watcher.  Impatience coated his tone.  "A skull with crossbones?  An 'x'?  What?"

"Calm down.  Trust me, we're freaked out enough.  It's an upside down cross with three sixes covering the front."  Several rooms away, and William could still see Giles's eyes widen as Xander exerted a deep breath and continued.  "Unless I'm wrong—and, please…let's not rule that out.  I'd be _happy _to be wrong—we're talking full apocalypse here, aren't we?  Like God's wrath—'ye unable to prevent'?"

"Well…" And that was it.  An unspoken cue for the vampire to evacuate his post and join the Watcher in the kitchen.  They stood opposite each other.  It astonished him to see Giles as concerned as he was.  They had survived a number of things—more end of the world prophesies than anyone could count, and he voiced his sentiments to the concerned man on the other end, not at all convincingly.  

Anyone within a ten-mile radius could hear the falsity in his tone.

"Yeah," Harris agreed.  "But this is different, right?  I mean—you have seen _The Omen, _haven't you?  That entire triple six thing is just…creepy and…biblical.  We can't stop anything biblical, can we?"

A hefty silence and the tension rolled off Giles's shoulders, his body relaxing into a helpless sigh.  "I don't know how to prevent the end of the world, should it be by heavenly means," he acknowledged.  "But I'm not entirely convinced that this…symbol is an indication of the approaching Antichrist.  There are a number of demons that enjoy masquerading by old text prophecy.  Buffy and I have stopped several.  Whatever this…thing is…it might be using biblical references to induce this sort of panic. These indicators are easily recognized by the public. On the whole, I would say it's more likely."  The Watcher glanced to William in silent offer of an opinion, but he had nothing to add.  "Believe me, I will be on the first plane to Sunnydale if anything else of a similar nature occurs.  I don't believe that the end of the world would be spelled out in the random killings of your ordinary vampires.  They were newly risen, correct?"

"Yeah.  That's what had us wigged out.  It wasn't like they had done anything apocalypse-worthy, or anything.  I mean, bad vampire: kill kill, sure.  But as soon as they got roughed up a bit, on came the black blood in spurts.  But…no.  They were newbies."      

"Then we're likely not dealing with an unpreventable day of reckoning," Giles reassured him, though he was sweating bullets.  "I don't believe you could elicit such a reaction from the newly risen unless he was significant in life, somehow.  Was it anyone you know?"

"Yeah…" Little by little, Xander's voice was relaxing.  "It was a coworker.  Real brain-dead guy.  The other was a chick we knew back in high school.  Neither of them struck me as 'Big Bad of the Year' material."

A sense of unspoken relief spread through the room.  The Watcher shook his head heavily, tossing a fleeting glance to William, who was staring at him in wonder.  "Now…Xander…listen to me.  This is important.  If there are any other indications…you know the routine.  Call me and I'll fly out immediately.  This report still seems a bit too vague to draw any radical assumptions."  Without ceremony, he hung up, heaving another deep breath.  "Right…" he said to no one in particular, though there was only one other occupant in the room.  A minute passed before he had gathered himself, looking up with dead fast seriousness. "We have work to do."

The next few weeks were spent buried in ancient text.  Demons were investigated and consequentially dismissed.  There weren't many demons Giles was aware of that would go to such extents to conceal themselves.  The foes she had faced in the past were never shy with exercising their powers or announcing various intentions.  A year had passed since the last report.  Whatever it was definitely wanted attention.  Attention, but not to be identified.  It had patience—a great deal of patience—and was waiting for the perfect time to strike.

Research was tedious and ineffective.  Book after book studied, analyzed, and discarded.

There were demons of every sort.  Demons that exaggerated their powers and used their various talents to attempt to bring about the end of the world.  Buffy had defeated a variety of those, and Giles would not be concerned if he thought it was nothing more.  However, such creatures had never hid before.  Had never waited the time span of a year before making a second and more ambiguous attack.   Similarly, there were demons that lived lives as regularly as any human—looking to both cause and receive no trouble.  Such were numbered, of course, but not nonexistent.  There were others like Whistler—those sent to correct various wrongs.  And yes, even biblical demons.  Creatures out to condemn mankind for multiple sins.  

There was only one consistency.  Behind every demon was the slayer waiting to kill it if it so much as twitched in the wrong direction.  The slayer and the slayer alone.

Unless that slayer was Buffy Summers, in which case, exceptions were always made.

There were volumes of books the Watcher had never seen before, never even heard of.  Night after night was spent locked in solitude, pouring over one page after the other.  Reading.  Digesting.  Research meetings stretched into the wee hours of morning—leaving William to slumber until sunset and Giles to tend to the curator duties.  Eventually, they traded off nights of rest.  The vampire had experience going prolonged periods without sleep and understood that he would be the first to relinquish, should the situation fester to that degree.

"There's a demon that specializes in biblical prophecy," the Watcher noted one evening.  It wasn't the pinnacle of all discoveries; William always knew when the old man was on to something—despite if the resolution turned out to be another dead-end.  Giles's eyes alighted with intensity and he would begin speaking with such haste that it was difficult to keep up.  "But it's not hostile.  More, it researches to prepare for Judgment Day while warning mortals of its imminent loom.  Some even use the guise of being Mormon to get their point across."

"The Mormons are demons?" The vampire snickered his amusement.  "I've been around for a while now, Ripper, and that's a new one by me."

"Not all of them," the Watcher amended quickly.  "But…ummm…for demons such as these," he gestured broadly at the text, "it makes for a good cover."  

"Hmph.  I always guessed there was something wacky about those blokes," William huffed.  "Demons get their jollies with whatever they do best—even if it is act as a sodding televangelist.  Had to be a reason they stand at those bloody corners all the—"

"Will.  Please.  On topic."

Lead after lead withered.  The library books proved interesting but not useful, and the newness soon wore off. After thoroughly investigating every last page of the Watcher's private collection, Giles implored other libraries to lend their manuscripts.  He even approached the Council's aid while somehow maintaining the secrecy of his motives.  

Every clue directed them to a blind alley.  

"You know," William said one day as he made a grab for Giles's Wheatabix.  "I'll bet your Council has full lot of books full of gibberish even they can't make out.  They don't want you to, either.  You're not with 'em anymore, and I bet they know you're the chap who could make all the little funny words make sense."

Serious allegations once upon a time, and without thought, the Watcher considered and offered a shrug of concession.  "It is a possibility," he agreed, standing to pour himself some more coffee.  "Though I doubt they would go to such extents.  The Council strives for the exposure of knowledge.   I have deciphered a lot of text in my day, but the ancient volumes—those that predate the books I possess that _already _predate history—might be a stretch.  It would take a…" He looked up suddenly, eyes shining with recognition.  "Those…pricks."  The word was comical, rolling off the old man's tongue, counterpoint only to the fire behind his gaze.  William bit back a smile.  "They know."

"Know?"

"They must.  The Council's policy on human interaction with vampires is…stringent.  It's their only regulation that exceeds the quest for knowledge."  Giles's eyes darkened in frustration and he slammed his mug ceremonially into the sink.  A perceptible flinch shuddered through both as the glass shattered into a thousand shards.  Violent temperament was rarely exhibited by either of them—William hadn't vamped since his interview the year before.  Neither wanted the reminder of where they came from. "Dammit!  If those imbeciles would…it nearly killed Angel once, despite the special circumstances of his nature.  I'm sure that doesn't mean a lot to you."  The Watcher glanced upward, reflecting his surprise when William's demeanor had not changed.  Over the past year, they had not discussed the grand-sire to any extent, and small changes in behavior still had the potential for an all-around shock.  After years of knowing Spike, it was understood that it would take a considerable amount of time to grow fully accustomed to his new and improved mannerisms. Much had changed since they met that first day at the café, and still they inwardly referred to old battles and conclusions for guidance. However, they were beyond analyzing every whim; replacing lengthy discussion with a mutual smile of embarrassed acknowledgment before continuing.  "Anyway, I'm willing to guarantee that they have been to the library while neither of us were acting particularly observant.  It was bad enough that Buffy was involved with the enemy.  _I'm_ supposed to know better."    

The Watcher scoffed heartily, ignoring the minor flinch that resounded immediately after her name.  Amongst other things, William's reaction to anything associated with the Slayer had progressed to the point of barely noticing his slip-ups.  No longer could he be manipulated simply by mentioning that _Buffy would like this _or _Buffy would find that droll.  _Giles used it occasionally to test him but not often.  Their discussions rarely progressed over that dangerous terrain unless the topic was shop.    

"So," William drawled after pouring a mouthful of Wheatabix down his throat.  "These gents would keep books from being read just because of my skin condition and special diet?  That's not right, Ripper.  That's—"

"Precisely one of the reasons my work for the Council decreases by the year."  He sighed.  "But they're the only way to keep a steady lookout on Faith.  Establishing our connection is painfully essential.  No, the Council would not meet my requests if they thought it helped you in any way, and the fact that I am asking for ancient manuscripts of demon ritual doesn't assist our plight."

"Why not just tell them the world's about to end…again?"

"We have no concrete proof.  Black blood is odd, I grant you, but it doesn't exactly spell out apocalypse."

"Yeah, but the upside down crucifix thingy can't be all sunshine and daisies.  It's important, mate.  Has to be if you can't find it in your home library."  Irately, William pulled himself to his feet.  "And what about mine?  We've searched every inch of that place.  Nothing about black blood."

"That might mean that it's not important enough to document," Giles observed.  

"Or unheard of in all senses."  The vampire arched his brows meaningfully as a sigh rolled off his body.  "Listen: how do you think all those bloody prophesies got written in the first place?  Someone got an idea and someone got stopped.  The idea was recorded in the theory that a more powerful bloke would try it again someday.  Some of it's real—yeah, I get that.  But consider this, Ripper…sometimes these hoity toity prophets just sit there and belly out a bunch of nonsense that just might come true if some wanker reads too much into it.  Vamps study prophecy just as much as you bloody watchers do.  Where there's a will, there's a way.  And where there's a way, there's a good idea how to get there the quickest.  Then there are the demons that want to make their own history by doing things their way.  I don't know about you, mate, but I don't wanna sit around on the off chance that this is a bunch of unrelated humbug.  I don't think you wanna, either.  Better safe than sorry.  Better sorry than dead."        

And thus they delved into more research.  Neither were terribly talented at operating a computer, though given the definite lack of Willow, Giles grudgingly conformed and began exercising the power of search engines and the alike.  He was never good at it, though, never grasped where the right spots were and accidentally found himself on more porn sites than he would like to admit.  The other links were likewise ineffectual.  Somewhere between the cynical and the psycho prophets, to whom every day is the last of the world.

The vampire in question could not be found anywhere.  

However desperate the situation could have become, it all abruptly ended one day with another phone call from Xander.  They had killed a demon, they said.  A big nasty demon with an upside down crucifix branded into his chest.  It didn't bleed—rather dissolved—but everyone was fairly confident that the link had been made and that the situation was resolved.  His description didn't heighten much in the fervor.  The demon was dead, after all—why identify it?  Should an army of a thousand attack Sunnydale, then they could fill out a profile sheet.  As of now, it was unimportant.

Giles was more than a little peeved with the news and refused to let Xander off the phone without quizzing him thoroughly, receiving further questions rather than answers.  He was in the middle of growling how the youth had no respect for the efforts put out by others as long as the pieces fit together in the end, and looked ready to give the man an ocean away a good scolding when his expression suddenly softened and the fire left his eyes.  William stood a few feet away, ignoring the conversation for his own minimal exasperation, but he detected the attitude change as though someone had switched the music from heavy metal to contemporary.

It was Willow.  Nothing she had said or done, just hearing her voice on the other end.  Broken but mending.  Surviving as warriors do.  The sound brought a quaint smile to his face.  It was not nearly as painful as it would have been a year before.  Voices of home.          

Then shop talk was over.  Though still notably aggravated, Giles enjoyed his exchange with Willow, promising to visit sometime soon and imploring her to give his love to the rest of the gang.  He hung up and stuffed his cell phone back into his slacks, his face adapting a neutral tenor, as though unknowing what to think.

There was a long silence.

"Well," he decided finally.  "I suppose…our efforts were…"

"I don't believe it for a sodding second," William offered, kicking his feet back onto the library table, spreading the newspaper wide before him.   When the Watcher stared, he rolled his eyes and sat up.  "Oh, not that they didn't kill a demon.  I believe that.  But…it's…them!  Nothing is ever that simple.  It's not just 'oooh, cryptic message, slash/kill/end of story.'  The Scoobies always 'ave someone after their hides—somethin' that isn't killed with a simple roundabout slaying."

"Can't we believe in good luck?"  Giles did sound tired, leaning against an aisle of books.  Then he frowned, realizing his words.  There was one thing he did not believe in, and that was luck.  Frustrated, he shook his head and continued. "I understand the improbability, but we can't presume anything with the information we have—or lack thereof.  They killed a demon with related markings that had been getting away with this sort of thing for a year.  There.  End of story."

William scoffed at him disbelievingly.  "Can it be true?  Did the Watcher just boohoo the chance that something is conjuring up some serious mojo?  I'm shocked.  After all, you all have thought you killed something before only to have it come back and laugh at your blind arse.  Rupert, I never thought I'd see the day.  Brush it off all you like.  I have these tinglies that won't go away, and I don't care what you or Harris says—I trust my tinglies."

Giles rolled his eyes and edged away from the book stack.  "We cannot be sure of anything, Will.  However, I think it rather foolish to spend time researching a demon we _still _know nothing about—other than the fact that it appears to be very much dead.  We'll just have to assume for now that our worrying was in vain.  Buffy handled the situation without encumbrance."

The vampire arched his brows and fought off another scoff.  "Feeling useless?"

"No.  It's good.  She's finally…" the Watcher grinned tightly to himself.  "Grown up."

And so the days returned to their monotonous beat, passing with regularity, spent day in and day out in the library.  Everything back to its mind-numbing normality.  The simplicity of life without life.  

A small apocalypse to start out a new year.  Yes—the world was as it should be.


	6. New Evil Rising

**Chapter Five**

Time progressed, a tedious repertoire of each day's passing.  William tended to the library—a thoughtful caretaker to be sure, if not otherwise bored and misplaced.  Things were quiet on the home front.  There were weekly reports, of course, the occasional threat of world domination, but, to the proud Watcher's delight, nothing the slayer was not capable of handling on her own accord.

Yes, things were quiet.  Experience stressed, however, that silence meant the brewing of some catastrophic evil.  And still it stretched endlessly.  There were the usuals, of course.  A vampire here, a demon there, perhaps one or two actual threats, but nothing that couldn't be handled.  Thus, there was no further reason for conjugal research parties, though Giles and William met still out of habit and the need for company.  When they weren't discussing demonology, they made long talks of cultural references; books they had both read and enjoyed, engaging in long and often amusing debates to the higher points of good literature.  What surprised the Watcher the most was the idea that his vampire friend had read many of the works they discussed while evil pumped through his veins.  There was no doubt that William was more scholarly than Spike, but their similarities leaked through with further intent as each day passed.  

It wasn't until the day that the vampire had requested off that Giles finally stumbled onto some old notebooks that had seen more wear and tear than any in his private collection.  A pile had been abandoned along with some other interesting reads; a few books for recreational enjoyment, a collection of Edgar Allen Poe opened to _The Raven, _and several volumes of demon ritual for furthered though futile research.

The notebooks, however, held the most surprise.  Page after page was documented with thousands of poems, all flowing with rhythmic beauty and description, each coursed and linked, different but alike.  Sorrowful works written with such pain that it stole the breath from his body.  Poems composed with overwhelming beauty and insight, concerning love and life, and the sensation of watching those around you live without being able to join them.  Giles was lost from the first word.  He waned away patrons and students who approached him, muttering something about the card catalog before returning to the words.  The words!  William definitely possessed a bleeding heart, and while the Watcher would have guessed that the woman he loved inspired his work, the simplistic magnificence of the sonnets was the progression beyond the physical and to outlook on life itself.  Unquestionably, there were dedications.  Odes to Buffy without so many words, often written with grief but lined with splendor.  He never named her specifically, but the way the pen seemed to move so freely, there could be no doubt.  

Giles had never known poetry like this.  His first instinct compelled him to approach William in question, but he decided against it with second consideration.  No, the vampire would rebuke in the namesake of pride.  He was a tough git—compassionate but straining to maintain his reputation, and would either insist that those were idle ramblings or that he had never seen them before, much less written them.  Then he would do something foolish and brash like incinerate his work to maintain his esteem.  That wouldn't do.  To deprive one man was to deprive the world.

But now was not the time.  He would wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Two entire years passed without single mention.  There were activities to fill in the holes—the occasional demon to research—and honestly, the Watcher allowed it to slip from his mind at intervals at a time.  Then the feedback started to roll in.  Critics.  Reviews.  Little by little at first, and then the massive outburst.  And that was when he could not take it.  Giles presented William with his gift on what he believed to be his one hundred and thirty second birthday.

The reaction was not as he thought.

"You what?!" the vampire erupted.  Before him was a collection of his work, bound by a thick navy cover, spanning the course of over five hundred pages.  And every word was his own, every thought, every image.  Everything he had conjured up from the bottom of his unbeating heart.  "I…I…how could you?  And not ask…not bloody TELL me…who gave you permission to—"

Giles frowned.  "I didn't think you would mind.  Your confidence has never lost its swagger."

"But…the…invasion…" The look on William's face truly was pathetic.  He was strained, too pale, even for a vampire, and almost to tears.  For a minute, all he could do was stare at the print on the front.  William the Bloody—Giles had used his original moniker for the penname.  "Bloody hell, Ripper," he murmured as the fire within began to wither.  "Do people even like it?  I can't…my work!  Out there…it's…"

"They love it, Will," he said softly.  "The London Press can't stop raving—I can't believe you haven't heard before now.  My apologies for…taking without asking.  It simply never occurred to me that you would…"

The vampire sighed.  "Yeah…I see that.  Really.  It's just…poetry's a soft-spot with me.  I wrote a lot before I was changed, though I think you probably knew that."    

"Actually, no."

"How the bloody hell did you think I got my sodding nickname?"  He pointed emphatically to the author of the text.

The Watcher arched a brow.  "That railroad spike trademark comes to mind for some reason…"

"Well…" William grinned tightly to himself.  "Yeah.  There was that.  That's when I changed my name to Spike, sure.  William the Bloody was before I died.  I was poet then, too.  William the Bloody for my bloody awful poetry."  Good lord, there were tears glistening through his gaze.  The Watcher had not seen his colleague actually weep since that first day, so long ago.  It didn't last long.  He wiped his eyes angrily and picked up the book, giving it a good shake.  "But they like this?  People do?  It's not awful?"  

The question seemed so completely ridiculous that he was tempted to laugh.  "I would not have submitted it for publication if it was awful," he replied honestly.  "Will, it's some of the most…breathtaking work I've ever read."

"Why the name?" the vampire rubbed his finger over the place his forename was embroidered in gold letters.  "Why not William Ripper II or something equally stupid?  If Buffy sees this—"

"Actually, I was hoping she does."

And that was it.  That was the end of the discussion.  No more would they talk of poetry or publications.  No more would William hang his head in sorrow that his secret passion had been unveiled.  He would never ask how Giles wheedled his notebooks away without his knowledge, and the Watcher would never tell.  Over time, he grew comfortable with the assumption that he had hired a typist to dictate the pages to computer.      

After a while, seeing his book in stores, in eager students' bags, even receiving a stock for the library, William allowed himself to grow with deserved pride.  He was the first published vampire in history.  The first with the will and the talent to have something to write about.  If he never composed again, he felt complete.  Vindicated.

_Haha, Cecily!  Beat that!  Nana nana na na!_

News from the home front remained unchanged.  Three years without major developments.  What was originally construed as tedium eventually became habit.  Surprisingly, the more time that passed, the less William seemed to mind.  He grew comfortable in habit—satisfied with his mended status in life.  The café was less and less visited; nights occupied with trips to the butcher and grocery store for Wheatabix and all those humanly foods he enjoyed, despite rationality.  He was completely adjusted to the taste of foreign packaged blood, though his method of weaning and resigned him with an unhealthy caffeine addiction.

One particularly boring day, William buried himself in research.  Not looking up anything of notable importance—just the reassurance that he would be prepared for the sudden rising of an unspeakable evil.  Giles agreed that excessive silence indicated the coming of something big, and the longer things festered, the larger the mutinous evil would be. 

It hadn't been mentioned for two years, but suspicions that the Council's confiscation of the ancient text was holding them back from the truly pivotal discoveries.  There was no way known to either that would provoke the Watcher's former employers to utilize an ode of trust.  

So William, during one of his routine smoke breaks, concluded a surprise package was in order for the Council.  He composed a very civil letter and enclosed it in a copy of his poetry volume.  The play was cheap, he understood, but any attempt was a good one.  Perhaps if those gits could see that he valued life as much as the next bloke then they would look at him like a man.  Demons might be good at masquerading a good show, but honesty was a virtue none could feign.  Especially since the Council made themselves to be a band of experts on the grounds of every vampire that walked the earth and had made special note of his case when he first came to Sunnydale.  It was shooting in the dark, but blind faith was better than none. 

Two weeks passed before he received a response.  It was none more than he expected. 

_ATTN: William the Bloody_

– _We appreciate your inquisition, and will gladly add your donation to the archives.  However, it is manifest that the Council does not negotiate with demons, nor accept petty efforts of subornment.  Despite the special circumstances of your condition, we regrettably cannot authorize the shipment of time's oldest volumes to the betterment of your personal projects.  Such reaches are so implicitly unrelated with the cause.  Sincerest apologies.     _

To that William only scoffed, unhampered.  The next day, he composed a shorter letter: strict and to the point.

_I'm sure the world will understand your unmoving position once she's destroyed, you crazed gits._

He related the situation to Giles and invited him to add his signature.  There was nothing more effective than his involvement.  The Council would have no reason to believe a vampire—the former Watcher's opinion was still respected in a sense, despite the bitterness of his release.

Next to his colleague's rugged though classy _William the Bleeding Bloody Baby!, _he added _Rupert Giles (Ripper)._

Two more weeks passed before the library received its delivery.  

In his time, Giles had seen thousands of books.  More volumes and collections than any one person could view.  For years, he had lived under the assumption that his private assortment was of the oldest in history.  However, the books before him were outmatched by any other.  The pages were so old and tarnished that the lettering had long ago meshed into a display of black swirls and aged colors.  Some of the passages were written in dialects he didn't even know existed.  William was equally enthralled—not so much by the content as by the thrill of the arrival.  For a full ten minutes, all he could do was singsong, "Someone beat the system… Someone beat the system…"

Then it was all business.  Days were spent locked in basements, those overcast upstairs.  They traded off working days, tending very little to library visitors, giving rash and nonsensical answers to avoid hefty explanations.  Passages at a time were translated—others discarded until they could identify the various unknown tongues.  Uncovered information was fascinating—some relevant, some not.  Some simply repeated old foretelling any myth.  There was so much to get through, so much to absorb.

"Bollocks! Listen to this," William said, eyes triumphant with conquered translation.  "There's a prophecy in 'ere about the fall of the Roman Empire.  Oh!  And 'the bloodfest of the eighteen-hundredth year of documented time.'"  He arched his brows and looked up.  "Civil War, I'm guessin'.  Bloody hell, there's somethin' in 'ere about that chap that was at Christ's side when he was crucified.  Immortal demon!  I don't believe…oh, looky looky: here's somethin' about the coming of the Chosen One."

"There have been several Chosen Ones, Will," Giles retorted absently.  "And even more prophecies surrounding their origin.  I don't think—"

"No!  Bugger, it's about Buffy.  Honest to bleedin' God.  The slayer who lives ten years after her calling…" Eagerly, he whirled the book to the Watcher, pointing emphatically at the indicated text.  "Three slayers will stand out as the most capable.  The most confident.  The most…basically, the most of the most.  Live to see…" He frowned suddenly, leaning forward.  "Hey…wait a tick…"

But Giles was already a step ahead of him, effectively grounded.  They traded uneasy gazes for long minutes before the silence snapped in a whirlpool of action.  In the same beat, they bounded to their feet, fighting for a place above the book—the Watcher turning away once his visual concern was verified.  Then he could do nothing but sit.  He leaned against the table, back to the vampire, whose muttered recital heightened in volume and panic with every word that escaped his lips.

"I…I didn't believe it was true…" Giles whispered to himself.  "It was myth, Will.  All myth.  There are two sorts of myth in the Watcher's Guild; that you know for fact and the idle curses made of rambling idealists in the ages before the sun began to burn.  All my life, I was told this was about as factual as professional wrestling."  No response from the floored vampire.  "Every slayer dies usually within the first three or four years of their calling.  Buffy is different.  We both know that.  It's been what, nine years now?  Since…" Then his voice trailed off, eyes going blank with blunt understanding.  "Since I met her.  Oh God…"

Finally, William found his voice, slamming the book shut and kicking it to the floor.  Both eyes followed as it slid ineffectually under an aisle of text.  "Let's not jump to any bleeding conclusions," he decided, tone not at all convincing.  "I mean, she—"

Words were silenced by a growing rumble quaking the earth.  They looked up breathlessly and moved by instinct to the various doorways, bracing themselves as car horns sounded crashes outdoors, as lights flickered and book racks toppled over.  It was over as quickly as it began, rendering the electricity useless and one of the skylights shattered with a fallen cable wire.

Predictably, the vampire was the first to speak.  "Well," he drawled.  "That was weird."

"No."  There was a dangerous edge to the Watcher's tone.  That 'Oh-God-I-Know-Something-Horrible-Is-Coming-And-I-Can't-Bloody-Stop-It stitching value.  "It was timely, whatever it was."  Another silence—not as brief.  "I need to call Buffy."

The phone lines, however, did not agree.  After several useless attempts, Giles was inconsolable.  His air was awry, part of his sweater tucked into his trousers, hand caressing his eyes as he attempted futilely not to tremble.  

Modesty was not betrayed through voice, nor the knowledge of their impending situation concealed. More over, William was not used to being the calm one, but he knew that if he lost it, neither of them was going to be of much help.  "Ripper, we don't know what it says.  The lights went all out before—" 

"What are the chances—tell me—that it says something good?"  Giles snapped.  "Good God, I should have known.  The inactivity, the—"

"Don't assume—"

"How can this not kill you?!"  The biting menace in his voice was almost more than William could tolerate.  He understood the Watcher was upset but there was no need to revisit old questions of manifestly resolute faith.  "You claim to love her, and—"

"Sod off, you old bint before you say something that makes me wanna bite you."  They exchanged fiery glances through the dark—the vampire with a bit more luck.  "I'm half mad as it is; I don't fancy a headache.  Why are you so buggered up?"

"Because the last slayer who lived ten years was killed by the Master."  Giles exhaled.  "The Master that Buffy killed."

"So?"

"So _she_—the other slayer—had killed the Master before him."  The man was gasping, nodding as comprehension bled into William's eyes.  "I never…according to folklore, there's a succession in the line of Masters.  A line that waits for their separate calling, much like the Slayer only with advanced training and years.  Buffy killed the oldest, and this…myth that I never believed in…claims another rises on the tenth anniversary of his death.  One stronger than his predecessor, one who will torture his killer if she is not already dead.  It has only happened once before, when the Master arose."  He heaved significantly, eyes glossing over.  "I can't do it again, Will.  I can't.  I've watcher her die twice now, only to hurt herself _beyond _death in the process, and it's all but destroyed me.  I can't do it again."  Another pause.  "He will be…he will have ties over her.  She can beat him, but things are different now.  The succession of the Masters is as old as predated history—an incidence that only occurs once a millennia, if that.  This new arising is only the third since the world began, and he has had thousands of years to prepare for surfacing."

William's eyes were cast downward somberly, his body unable to cease its quivers.  For the first time in a hundred years, he felt cold.  Truly cold.  Genuine anger coursed through his system—he hadn't felt it in so long.  Accusingly, he glared upward, voice biting with venom.  "Why didn't you tell her?"

"Because when she was threatened with the idea that the Master that killed her could arise again, it destroyed her."  The Watcher shook his head.  "I thought she could make it this far.  But it wasn't supposed to be real, Will!  It's speculation dismissed by everyone involved in the demon world.  I thought about mentioning it from time to time…idly…but there was no point.  It wasn't real.  I didn't want her to worry, especially if…"

"In case she died?"  The vampire shifted uneasily.  "Sod your excuses, you shoulda told her, mate.  And you bloody well know it.  Buffy's faced a lot of things wackier than the Master.  I mean…she killed Angelus, for god's sake! True, he wasn't the baddest of the bad, but she stuck a bleedin' sword through her boy's chest."  It killed him to admit it, but personally, William was still regretting that he hadn't been there to see it.  Thoughts of Angel and Buffy together were not happy ones—with or without a conscience.  "I'm willing to bet kittens that that was more traumatic for her than physical death. Heartache is the worst, old man.  Take it from someone who's had a bit of both.  Then after Peaches, there was the mayor and that renegade slayer bint.  And that mad-scientist creation. Then the hell-god, who she bloody died 'cause of.  And me, o'course.  The Big Bad."  William heaved a breath.  "You shoulda told her.  She's not a tike anymore.  She's had her lot of death.  Bugger her readiness—you were yellow, Ripper."

"Of course!" Giles snapped.  "If you had an inkling of feeling, if you knew what she went through when the Master…she was just a girl.  I had to protect her."

"She's not a little girl now.  She hasn't been for a long time.  And protect her from what, exactly?  Where's the bloody harm if you didn't think it was real?"

"I don't spend a lot of time making guesswork about idle mythology," the Watcher muttered, surprising him with the degrees lost in volume.  "It makes sense now."

"What?"

"Everything.  The inactivity, the selection of those demons that decided to make themselves known." Giles sighed heavily.  "This earthquake was only the start.  More will follow across the globe."

"How yah know the earthquake—"

"After so many years, you learn to decipher nature from ritual."  A long pause.  "We need to go to her."

The room became deathly still and remained frozen for what seemed like hours.  For the longest time, all William could do was stare at the old man; the nonexistent need for air seizing his chest and constructing harsh breaths to crash passed his lips.  And then he was overtaken with pain.  Simply seeing her face flash before his eyes, the hurt and betrayal, the biting sting of her retort.  The pained hate.  The _hate.  _

Go back to that?

"I can't!" he choked at last.  "Ripper, you can't ask me to do that."

"I need you for this, Will.  It's not a matter of your willingness.  I'll also need…need to call LA.  Angel—"

That was too much.  Buffy _and _Peaches?  He couldn't fathom the weight.  "Bloody no.  I—"

Suddenly he forced back, surprised his night-vision hadn't caught the Watcher moving forward.  A grip tightened around his throat and forced his back to bend along ways the table, cracking him over books and notes and uncovered prophecy.  "Perhaps you didn't hear me," he growled.  "I.  Need.  You.  There is no choice.  You're coming if I have to pay every vendor in this town to rid their supply of blood for the next year and every store to stop their shipments of Wheatabix.  I need someone there to watch out for her."  Then his gaze soften and he released his grasp.  William coughed and sat up, own hand compensating for the absence of Giles's around his throat, caressing the bruise undoubtedly forming.  "I need to feel that she is safe.  I know I can count on you for that."     

A longer silence along with a stare of pure astonishment.  For minutes, all he could do was stand and gape at the old man.  The words sounded foreign, and he could not, for the life of him, decode the higher value.  Long ago, he had asked the Watcher never to forgive him of his trespasses.  Wasn't that what trust was: understanding mistakes made in the past, granting pardon, and allowing a fresh start?  William didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  Tears were so overdone now and not nearly as efficient as silence.

And then it was too much.  With a frustrated growl, the vampire tore himself away, stalking further into the darkness, beyond fallen bookshelves where Giles could not see him.  "No, no, no, no, NO!" he screamed, loud and violent until his throat ached.  "This is wrong!  You're not supposed to…" Unsatisfied, he came forward again, light surviving his eyes if nowhere else.  "How could you, Ripper?  You promised me…you promised me that you would never forgive me.  You bloody well can't go back on that now.  Don't say you trust me with her, you bleeding wanker.  Don't give me a sodding clean slate.  I'll bugger it up somehow."  Desperate and not receiving a response, he collapsed to his knees, at last unable to stop the tears.  "Don't trust me.  Don't treat me like nothing happened.  I don't deserve that."

The air fell silent save the long chokes of endless sobs.  William lowered his head, grasping onto Giles's coat, asking—pleading for an answer.  Anything to counter still nothingness.  No matter how many barriers he crossed, this was one boundary beyond his reach.  For the past three years, he had been comfortable with that.  Sure, it hurt like hell, but it fit the crime.  Loving from afar, standing steadfast in the same place, knowing he could never look at her again, let alone touch her.  Protect her.

Trust?  Faith?  Forgiveness?  Such words had no place here.  No matter how much time passed or how he progressed, that part of him was rendered forever still.  There could be no advancement—it was not craved or warranted.  Punishment was in order, and he was—or had been—certain that this incessant, intolerable distance was what satisfied the severed means.

To see her?  After all this?  

"I never promised not to forgive you," Giles said finally.  "You begged for that release, and I could not grant it.  Truthfully, Will, I haven't forgiven the demon.  How can I?  But _you_…I forgave _you _a long time ago.  I know a part of what happened was because of you, but I don't believe things would have gone so badly if it had been you and not Spike.  I doubt many things that happened that year would have concurred.  These past few years have changed my outlook tremendously.  And whether or not you like it, that is how we stand.  You cannot help my forgiving you, and you could have prevented it.  I didn't even realize it until after it was done.  You earned it, Will.  I need you now.  I need someone I can trust her with."  A degree lower.  "I need my friend to come with me."     

The vampire's eyes watered again, a hand coming to his mouth as he retracted his grasp on the Watcher's coat and clamored to his feet.  "We're friends?" he asked meekly.  "Since when?"

"We have been for a while," Giles replied, a kind smile tickling his lips.  "People don't ask for these things, Will.  They happen.  Trust me, friendship was the last thing I wanted from you.  You have caused me more grief than you're worth, but things are different.  They have been for a long time."

With some reluctance, William nodded, wiping the last of his tears from his eyes.  "I know," he replied softly.  "So, what now?  We waltz back to Sunnydale?  What makes you think she'll let me get near her or the Little Bit?  Or _anyone, _for that bleeding matter?  Even if I could protect her…who would it be from?"

"I'll tell her," Giles decided.  At the panic that spread through his colleague's eyes, he amended, "About our working together.  Buffy trusts my judgment.  It'll be easier for her to believe I put up with a noisy Fitzwilliam Ripper II rather than William the Bloody.  As for your soul, that's for you to decide.  You got it for her, Will.  Despite your attempts, she will find out, sooner or later.  How she finds out depends on you."

"I know."  He heaved a breath of concession.  "I've always known she'd find out…somehow.  But I'm not ready for it, Ripper.  I'll do what I can, but I…she can't know.  Not at first."

"Then I suggest you dye your hair," Giles observed casually.  "And slip back into the Big Bad."  A heavy breath rolled off his shoulders.  "We have to get ready.  I'll call Buffy as soon as we—"

"What about this?" William stood indicatively in the middle of the library, surrounded by debris.  "What about my job?  What about everything—"

"Contact the administration and explain an emergency has arisen overseas.  They will have to find a replacement curator for now."  Giles paused.  "Perhaps that psychiatrist they mentioned when you first got the job.  Don't worry.  The management likes you too much to let you go without a fight."

The vampire twitched and grumbled.  "Bloody well hope so.  Right, I better stay 'ere, then, while you run out and make your phone calls." He gestured to the wreckage.  "I gotta clean up this sodding mess and make it all fancy before we leave."

"Right.  Then we better plan to meet at my flat later tonight.  I want to be out on the first available flight tomorrow.  Go to your place and grab whatever you think you'll need."  And that was that.  Tasks ready and issued; there was no going back.  Promises constructed through air.  What a world, what a world.

He appreciated that level of understanding they shared.  Verification was rarely needed anymore.  Unless something completely unprecedented came up, spoken word was stronger than any forged contract.  William nodded and huffed, bent forward and collected a few books, paused, and called after the departing Watcher.  "Ripper…one more thing."  He cleared his throat.  "Do you have an orb?"

Giles paused shortly in stride.  "What?" he demanded without turning around.

"Yah know—an orb.  Of…soul keepin' and all that magicky stuff."  As the Watcher finally offered him a frown in question, William's hands came up peacefully and he stepped back, though the space between them could have been marked with mileage signs.  "Hey—I'm a trusted bloke, but I figure that this new ponce will…you said make the Master's killer suffer, right?" He sighed.  "I'm not sure if he could, and I'm not sure how I'd react, but this git might be able to take what's mine.  If that happens, you gotta be ready to curse me.  To work that mojo or whatever.  I don't think I'd be a prat.  I mean—I love her no matter.  But there's always a chance."  When Giles did not extract his dubious expression, the vampire again stood back quickly and quirked a brow.  "What?  Did I say somethin' worth a staking?  I just want to keep my bloody soul, dammit.  Do you have one?  The ritual?  The orb?"

"I do," the Watcher said softly, at last.  "It's just…three years of tolerating your inconsistencies and you can still astonish me."  There was a comfortable pause.  "I will likely have retired by the time you arrive this evening.  Goodnight, William.  And do look up.  Daresay, Buffy might surprise you with her reaction."

"Yeah…she might not stake me immediately.  Might go a few rounds of a good beating before she decides it's time to spike old Spikey."

Giles grinned though there was no humor behind it—just simple, sad understanding, perhaps a shimmer or so of sympathy.  "We'll see."

That was it.  He was gone— and it was time to prepare


	7. Phone Call

**Chapter Six**

It had been over three years since Giles offered his couch to William, and strangely, it still felt like habit.  When he arrived that night, the vampire found everything prepared for him—Wheatabix and telly alike.  There was an even an ashtray on the coffee table.  It looked to be an antique, and though he was tempted, he decided not to test that 'no smoking in the house' policy.  Instead, he poured himself a glass of blood, heated it up while leaving a message for the administration to phone him at the Watcher's flat, and flopped onto the settee to channel surf before inevitable sleep.

_The lot of 'em are going to think I'm a poof, _he thought dryly, glad to have his mind occupied elsewhere, even if the material was not entirely engaging.  _See me and the old man together all the time as it is.  Now they have to make bleedin' house calls._

No rest would be found that night.  Despite his attempts, William was too much absorbed in the knowledge that he would be home soon.  The only place that had ever  felt like home.  He was dreading it; cold fingers spooling knots around his insides.  What Ripper had said was right, of course, and in any regard, protecting her was more important than sparing his feelings.  But it hurt.  It made his body tremble at the mere notion of the days ahead.

He wished absently that his heart could beat if only to hear it pounding its terror.

Tomorrow was the commencement test of his personal progression.  London had given him many things.  A home away from home, an occupation, a friend—a true friend.  He hadn't had one of those since before he died.  The coming days would be hard, quite possibly unbearable, but there was comfort in knowing he wouldn't be alone.  Giles wasn't one to betray friends for the comfort of others.  He knew he was foolish to believe that everything could remain as it was here with the mindset that it was only a change of scenery, but the old man had a history with these kids that he did not have with him.  And then, likewise, so much had passed here.  It would be interesting, frightening but interesting, to see how things would play out.

Work would undeniably resume.  Instead of the library, there was the Magic Box—(assuming they still met there, given the condition of Red and all).  And then there was Angel.  The ponce.  The poofter.  Peaches.  How he loathed the thought of seeing him again.  He wouldn't expect civility—couldn't.  Soul or no soul, the very thought of what the vampire meant to Buffy—all the things he could never—made him wrench with inward torment and hate.  And rationally, no one would understand the Watcher's bizarre allegiance with the demon they were supposed to hate above all others.

_Unless they know about my Jiminy Cricket, _he thought.  _And even then…it's doubtful._  

There were also aspects of innovation, despite the harsh circumstances of this journey.  Beforehand when he traveled, he left everything—save Drusilla—behind.  To actually have luggage and a need to take studies with him was a fresh experience.  He felt needed.  Helpful.  

The next day would be a busy one.  Aside from settling his affairs, there was hair to dye, books to pack and part with, a supply of blood to stock for the plane ride, and of course, the uncovering of the blanket he used to navigate during day lit hours.  He had not needed it for a long time; Giles always brought his morning beverage to the curator's apartment where they discussed the events for the day before going downstairs to open the library.  Any external navigation was performed at night while the sun was safely away.  There was no additional need for further travel.  He had everything he needed in the library, from books to paper, smokes to Wheatabix, and daily deliveries of blood.  William had not been so bold as to lose his sunshine protector, and while he knew Giles was looking into night flights, the transatlantic trip could not go thoroughly daylight free.  

The vampire heaved a breath, suddenly desperate for a smoke.  Sleep had never come particularly easy for him, and the knowledge of what awaited the next day did little to aid his plight.  However, it came little by little in small doses.  A catnap here, a nightmare there.  Anything to get him through until the sun arose—the scent tainting the air upon every upheaval.  Around five, he finally succumbed to deep though easily disturbed slumber.  He jerked awake the instant Giles's chamber door cracked open.

"I suppose it's needless to inquire as to your alertness," the Watcher said in greeting, moving hurriedly through the kitchen and to his brewing coffee maker.  

William grinned a tight, sleepy grin and stretched.  "Morning to you, too, Ripper.  You're off early…" He sat up and squinted at the clock that hung over the telly.  "I think."

"We have a lot to accomplish within a short amount of time," he agreed, coming into view.  "Are you well to stay here today?  Have you spoken with the library administration?"

"They're calling me…sometime."  William quirked a brow, for the first time noting the man's attire.  He was set and ready to go, alert and jittery without caffeinated incentive.  There was no actual need for coffee today, beyond habit.  "Here.  I gave 'em your phone number, so I'm stuck 'ere until they ring me up."

Nodding, Giles slurped down his coffee, placed it on the kitchen table (off the coaster—he _was _in a hurry), and moved for the door.  "Right.  Then it's best you stay here."  He stopped as his hand reached for the knob, and he turned thoughtfully back to his vampire roommate.  "I don't suppose, though, that you could run by the post office after your call and—"

"What do I look like?  A bleedin' delivery boy?"

Giles snickered, his features mischievous.  William was glad to see it.  In the beat of all this tension, they both would be lost without humor.  "Buffy," he said simply, waiting, gauging a response.

The name once upon a time would have enticed him to anything that was asked, and though it hadn't lost its power, the vampire had grown to a state of diplomacy and self-control.  He shivered as he chuckled, shaking his head.  "Nah, the magic name won't work on everything, mate.  I'm already hauling my pale ass across the ocean for her—but I won't become your sodding mailman."     

There was a shrug of pure innocence.  "It was worth a try.  I will go by the library and put a sign in the window.  'Family emergency' or what have you."

"Right then."  

"Here."  Giles reached to the stand beside the door and tossed a small box in the vampire's direction.  It was hair color; higher quality than the stuff he used forever ago.  William blinked his surprise.  "I picked it up last night.  Thought you might find it useful."

He grinned.  "Covers up that pesky soul, eh?"

"So I've been told.  I'll be back this afternoon.  And then we should really…"

"Leave.  I know.  I'm used to the idea, Ripper." 

"And you will be ready?  To face everything?"

William snickered.  "How can anyone ever 'be ready' for this, mate?  Go back to the town that began and ended you to look the girl you love in the face while knowing you're the source fer her pain an' sufferin'?  And it's not just her.  I'll hafta face Nibblet an' Red.  Harris…I already know what to expect.  That wanker never gave me the benefit of a doubt."  He sighed, running a hand through his dark strands.  "Peaches…good god, I don't know how I'm gonna be able to talk to the ponce.  I hated him before…I don't think I'll be able to bloody look at him now."  Another sigh and his head shook sullenly.  "It hurts too much."

"What does?"

"She…she loves 'im no matter.  I know she doesn't anymore, but that's a bloody hard thing to get over.  I've always hated that.  Knowin' even if I got close enough, I'd still be number two."  William ran a finger over the hair dye and smiled softly.  "Can't do much about it.  Don't deserve anything else.  Don't—"

Giles rolled his eyes and heaved a frustrated breath, coaxing the vampire's gaze to his, tingling with surprise.  "Honestly," he muttered, "I know you have done many things that don't deserve reckoning, Will. What happened in that bathroom might be one of them, but so help me, with each passing day, the less steady my conviction stands.  The only way you don't deserve to attempt for forgiveness—from _all ­_ends­—is if you fail to desist this continuous boohooing.  It is my belief that you have done enough good these past three years to deserve anything."  He wisely ignored the look of pure astonishment and shook his head, moving again for the door.  "When we return to Sunnydale, I will make no attempt to disguise your goodwill, my value of your opinion, or what has occurred here since I took Willow back.  Despite our many attempts, we have somehow managed to become friends, and I will not choose alliances.  Nor will I stand for anyone suggesting my friend's loyalties are not what they seem to be.  I know better."  There was an honest smile as he stepped outside.  "Be ready for the leave when I return," he advised, leaving before the vampire could conjure up any form of an answer.  

The morning was spent occupied with a variety of mundane activities.  Lackluster and edgy, William devoured the rest of the coffee—flavored with his favorite additive.  His stomach emitted several humanly rumblies and after a hefty investigation of the kitchen, he flipped a stack of flapjacks.  There was an assortment of morning talk shows for telly entertainment, an episode of _Passions _to catch.  He would never admit it, but he was so far behind on that show that he doubted any amount of watching would catch him up.  When the television no longer claimed his interest, he flipped through whatever reading material was sorted about the flat—all things he had read before.  Bored, he decided to test out the new stuff Ripper had provided him with on his full head of brown curls.

William took his place in the bathroom, staring at the space of nothing reflected in the mirror.  After long minutes, he turned his gaze to the box, reading over instructions that he could have recited by heart.  "Well," he said, running a hand through brunette strands.  "Here goes nothing."

The process in itself didn't occupy as much time as he would have liked.  Within a half hour, he was bored again—meandering about the apartment in anticipation for the dye to set.  He finished off his pancakes, dipping the last in blood and licking his fingers clean.  Thoughts threatened to tread over territory he did not want to consider.  In twenty-four hours, he would be back in Sunnydale.  In twenty-four hours, her scent would taint the air with such potency that he would be surprised if it failed to provoke her to tears.  He tried to tell himself that things had changed, summoning three years' worth of memories.  He recited his status: a curator for a well-regarded library, a demon researcher, a _friend _of Giles's.  A good guy.  A—

_Filthy rapist._

The growl that arose in his throat pained and stretched and nearly tore his vocals out.  _No, no, no, no!  _he warred.  _What have I just spent the last years doing?  Proving that it's not me…proving—_

The demon would always be a part of him.  No amount of earthly redemption could change that.  In the end, it didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  He had endured time and trial, failed more times than was worth mentioning and passed a few.  Very few.  He had kneeled before a demon a lifetime ago, asked for the restoration of his former self, to _give him what he wanted,_ what _Buffy deserved._

A soul.  His soul.  Had he truly wanted that?  _Could _he want it?  Could a demon rise above probability and ask for the one thing that would…

It was beyond reasoning now.  Beyond the need to ask.  Three years of progression had driven him back to the starting point.  He never felt so lost.

A few minutes past noon, the silence of the apartment was perturbed by the sudden shrill of the telephone.  The phone rarely rang when he was here—Giles had that cell that he kept handy, reminding William that one of the administrators was scheduled to call sometime soon.  He released a needless breath, shaking his head and grinning tightly to himself.  "You're losing your edge, git," he murmured, moving to push himself off the couch.  "'Course, you've known that fer a while now."  He hauled to his feet, stumbling slightly and stubbing his toe on the coffee table just as he reached the phone.  A sharp ache jittered up his foot, and he bit a menacing, "Oh, bloody hell," before realizing the receiver was pressed to his ear.  "Sorry 'bout that, mate.  'Ello?"

There was a long, startled silence on the other end, followed by a sharp intake of breath.  William froze, his entire body growing numb.  He felt it climb up his legs, his abdomen, until he was standing—unmoving, horrified, panged, and speechless.  All humanly traits betrayed him; rendering him very much a standing corpse in the middle of the Watcher's flat.  Words rose within him, verses of long-forgotten poetry before all withered and died.  He wanted to breathe—wanted to fill his lungs, but found not the strength.

Then there was a voice.  A voice so heavenly, so hesitant that it made him jolt with pain.  It was the closest he had heard that voice in three, long years.

She whispered one word.  "…Spike?"

All sense of poetry abandoned him without warning.  He was flabbergasted—at a new loss of words.  A loud voice screamed just to answer her.  After all, he would be seeing her soon.  In a few precious hours, he would be under that inscrutable observation, pained with rekindled guilt and begging for another death.  A wealth of angst could be spared with the acknowledgement of what was inevitable, and yet his will refused to allow his mind to take the easy way out.  Not for his sake or hers.  Instead, he cleared his throat, adapting his voice as Gilesy as he could manage before summoning the courage to speak.

"Ummm…who?"

He frowned at his imitation.  It would be a miracle if she did not burst out laughing—or start screaming.  Extended silence tautened, and neither happened.  There was a huff of what could be construed as disappointment if one did not know better, followed by dreary recognition.  "Oh.  Never mind.  This is Rupert Giles's number, isn't it?"

He wanted to deny the claim but knew she would call back.  "Yes.  I am…" he searched his memory palace quickly.  Giles had given her a name long ago.  Something… "Fitzwilliam.  Yes.  Rip…Rupert's cousin."  _Rip…Rupert…bloody brilliant.  Very smooth, yeh wanker.  _"May I help you?"

It was quite possibly the worst English accent an Englishmen could portray.

"Yeah.  If you…he's not there?"

"No…he stepped out.  To—uhh—run a few errands."  William squeezed his eyes shot.  Was it too late to reveal his identity?  He was certain she knew already.  "Is this about…ummm…the family business?"

"Yes.  This is Buffy Summers. He's probably told you about me.  If he hasn't, he's dead."  There was a fond pause.  "Oh God.  He _has _told you about me, hasn't he?"

"Oh.  Yes, yes."  Told him?  William shuddered to think of the world where someone would have to tell him Buffy existed without knowing her.  Really know her.

"Good. Got kinda awkward there for a minute." _Sweet Jesus, you have no idea._ "Tell him I to talk to him immediately.  Something…majorly wiggy has happened.  Standard apocalyptic stuff."  She chuckled humorlessly, and he pictured her nervous grin and a roll of those beautiful eyes.  He soared with painful adoration.  "Pretty much the norm around here."  Another pause.  "Have you ever been to Sunnydale?  I can't remember—"

"No…no…I believe."  Speaking was odd.  He had never had to consider his vocabulary to such a degree as he did now.  "I think Riii…upret's planning a visit, anyway.  He—err—expressed a…ummm…desire to visit soon."  _That's right.  Stick to the big words._

"I know.  Ang…my friend called and said he had talked to Giles and that something major was in the works."

Great.  Peaches was already implicated.  That was swell.  

"Yes," William managed to croak.  "That chap in Los Angeles, right?  Angelus?" 

"Yeah."  There was another pause.  Darker.  Suspicious.  Then she sighed heavily, and it killed him to hear the fatigue in her tone.  The weariness.  The aspects of feeling deficient.  "I don't mean to be weird, but you really sound like a guy I used to know."

"Oh?" he choked, reaching for the couch in support.  "Who?"

The silence that followed was the hardest he had ever been made to endure.  Every fiber scurrying across his flesh seemed to tighten across his bones, his muscles hardening in tension.  When she responded with a quiet, "It doesn't matter," he thought he would break down into tears.  However, he managed to hold onto his wits long enough to jot down a message for Giles, give his respects, and place the phone back on the hook.  Then he could not stand it.  Pathetically, he collapsed to his knees, long, hard sobs racking his body.  He cried until he could force no more tears, hating himself for instability.  

"How many sodding years have to pass?" he demanded the silence.  

The dye was likely dry.  When he felt he could trust his legs, he warily made his way back to the bathroom.  There he crashed again—curling beside the shower, tearing at his vocals.  The evidence was there and he could not ignore it.  There was absolutely no way he would survive this trip.  If a phone call winded him, seeing her, watching her, feeling her betrayed hatred would surely be the end of him.

He wanted to tell that to Giles.  He had nearly convinced himself to when the conversation held the night before reverberated through an unwilling cavity. 

_I need someone I can trust her with._

As the last of his outburst finally subsided, William heaved a quaking breath from his chest and fought to his feet.  No, there was no backing out.  No turning back.  No changing his mind.  What he had to do was for her—and nothing, not this uprising evil, not the Scoobies, not even his selfishness would prevent him from doing his duty.

Even if it killed him.

**Chapter Six**

It had been over three years since Giles offered his couch to William, and strangely, it still felt like habit.  When he arrived that night, the vampire found everything prepared for him—Wheatabix and telly alike.  There was an even an ashtray on the coffee table.  It looked to be an antique, and though he was tempted, he decided not to test that 'no smoking in the house' policy.  Instead, he poured himself a glass of blood, heated it up while leaving a message for the administration to phone him at the Watcher's flat, and flopped onto the settee to channel surf before inevitable sleep.

_The lot of 'em are going to think I'm a poof, _he thought dryly, glad to have his mind occupied elsewhere, even if the material was not entirely engaging.  _See me and the old man together all the time as it is.  Now they have to make bleedin' house calls._

No rest would be found that night.  Despite his attempts, William was too much absorbed in the knowledge that he would be home soon.  The only place that had ever  felt like home.  He was dreading it; cold fingers spooling knots around his insides.  What Ripper had said was right, of course, and in any regard, protecting her was more important than sparing his feelings.  But it hurt.  It made his body tremble at the mere notion of the days ahead.

He wished absently that his heart could beat if only to hear it pounding its terror.

Tomorrow was the commencement test of his personal progression.  London had given him many things.  A home away from home, an occupation, a friend—a true friend.  He hadn't had one of those since before he died.  The coming days would be hard, quite possibly unbearable, but there was comfort in knowing he wouldn't be alone.  Giles wasn't one to betray friends for the comfort of others.  He knew he was foolish to believe that everything could remain as it was here with the mindset that it was only a change of scenery, but the old man had a history with these kids that he did not have with him.  And then, likewise, so much had passed here.  It would be interesting, frightening but interesting, to see how things would play out.

Work would undeniably resume.  Instead of the library, there was the Magic Box—(assuming they still met there, given the condition of Red and all).  And then there was Angel.  The ponce.  The poofter.  Peaches.  How he loathed the thought of seeing him again.  He wouldn't expect civility—couldn't.  Soul or no soul, the very thought of what the vampire meant to Buffy—all the things he could never—made him wrench with inward torment and hate.  And rationally, no one would understand the Watcher's bizarre allegiance with the demon they were supposed to hate above all others.

_Unless they know about my Jiminy Cricket, _he thought.  _And even then…it's doubtful._  

There were also aspects of innovation, despite the harsh circumstances of this journey.  Beforehand when he traveled, he left everything—save Drusilla—behind.  To actually have luggage and a need to take studies with him was a fresh experience.  He felt needed.  Helpful.  

The next day would be a busy one.  Aside from settling his affairs, there was hair to dye, books to pack and part with, a supply of blood to stock for the plane ride, and of course, the uncovering of the blanket he used to navigate during day lit hours.  He had not needed it for a long time; Giles always brought his morning beverage to the curator's apartment where they discussed the events for the day before going downstairs to open the library.  Any external navigation was performed at night while the sun was safely away.  There was no additional need for further travel.  He had everything he needed in the library, from books to paper, smokes to Wheatabix, and daily deliveries of blood.  William had not been so bold as to lose his sunshine protector, and while he knew Giles was looking into night flights, the transatlantic trip could not go thoroughly daylight free.  

The vampire heaved a breath, suddenly desperate for a smoke.  Sleep had never come particularly easy for him, and the knowledge of what awaited the next day did little to aid his plight.  However, it came little by little in small doses.  A catnap here, a nightmare there.  Anything to get him through until the sun arose—the scent tainting the air upon every upheaval.  Around five, he finally succumbed to deep though easily disturbed slumber.  He jerked awake the instant Giles's chamber door cracked open.

"I suppose it's needless to inquire as to your alertness," the Watcher said in greeting, moving hurriedly through the kitchen and to his brewing coffee maker.  

William grinned a tight, sleepy grin and stretched.  "Morning to you, too, Ripper.  You're off early…" He sat up and squinted at the clock that hung over the telly.  "I think."

"We have a lot to accomplish within a short amount of time," he agreed, coming into view.  "Are you well to stay here today?  Have you spoken with the library administration?"

"They're calling me…sometime."  William quirked a brow, for the first time noting the man's attire.  He was set and ready to go, alert and jittery without caffeinated incentive.  There was no actual need for coffee today, beyond habit.  "Here.  I gave 'em your phone number, so I'm stuck 'ere until they ring me up."

Nodding, Giles slurped down his coffee, placed it on the kitchen table (off the coaster—he _was _in a hurry), and moved for the door.  "Right.  Then it's best you stay here."  He stopped as his hand reached for the knob, and he turned thoughtfully back to his vampire roommate.  "I don't suppose, though, that you could run by the post office after your call and—"

"What do I look like?  A bleedin' delivery boy?"

Giles snickered, his features mischievous.  William was glad to see it.  In the beat of all this tension, they both would be lost without humor.  "Buffy," he said simply, waiting, gauging a response.

The name once upon a time would have enticed him to anything that was asked, and though it hadn't lost its power, the vampire had grown to a state of diplomacy and self-control.  He shivered as he chuckled, shaking his head.  "Nah, the magic name won't work on everything, mate.  I'm already hauling my pale ass across the ocean for her—but I won't become your sodding mailman."     

There was a shrug of pure innocence.  "It was worth a try.  I will go by the library and put a sign in the window.  'Family emergency' or what have you."

"Right then."  

"Here."  Giles reached to the stand beside the door and tossed a small box in the vampire's direction.  It was hair color; higher quality than the stuff he used forever ago.  William blinked his surprise.  "I picked it up last night.  Thought you might find it useful."

He grinned.  "Covers up that pesky soul, eh?"

"So I've been told.  I'll be back this afternoon.  And then we should really…"

"Leave.  I know.  I'm used to the idea, Ripper." 

"And you will be ready?  To face everything?"

William snickered.  "How can anyone ever 'be ready' for this, mate?  Go back to the town that began and ended you to look the girl you love in the face while knowing you're the source fer her pain an' sufferin'?  And it's not just her.  I'll hafta face Nibblet an' Red.  Harris…I already know what to expect.  That wanker never gave me the benefit of a doubt."  He sighed, running a hand through his dark strands.  "Peaches…good god, I don't know how I'm gonna be able to talk to the ponce.  I hated him before…I don't think I'll be able to bloody look at him now."  Another sigh and his head shook sullenly.  "It hurts too much."

"What does?"

"She…she loves 'im no matter.  I know she doesn't anymore, but that's a bloody hard thing to get over.  I've always hated that.  Knowin' even if I got close enough, I'd still be number two."  William ran a finger over the hair dye and smiled softly.  "Can't do much about it.  Don't deserve anything else.  Don't—"

Giles rolled his eyes and heaved a frustrated breath, coaxing the vampire's gaze to his, tingling with surprise.  "Honestly," he muttered, "I know you have done many things that don't deserve reckoning, Will. What happened in that bathroom might be one of them, but so help me, with each passing day, the less steady my conviction stands.  The only way you don't deserve to attempt for forgiveness—from _all ­_ends­—is if you fail to desist this continuous boohooing.  It is my belief that you have done enough good these past three years to deserve anything."  He wisely ignored the look of pure astonishment and shook his head, moving again for the door.  "When we return to Sunnydale, I will make no attempt to disguise your goodwill, my value of your opinion, or what has occurred here since I took Willow back.  Despite our many attempts, we have somehow managed to become friends, and I will not choose alliances.  Nor will I stand for anyone suggesting my friend's loyalties are not what they seem to be.  I know better."  There was an honest smile as he stepped outside.  "Be ready for the leave when I return," he advised, leaving before the vampire could conjure up any form of an answer.  

The morning was spent occupied with a variety of mundane activities.  Lackluster and edgy, William devoured the rest of the coffee—flavored with his favorite additive.  His stomach emitted several humanly rumblies and after a hefty investigation of the kitchen, he flipped a stack of flapjacks.  There was an assortment of morning talk shows for telly entertainment, an episode of _Passions _to catch.  He would never admit it, but he was so far behind on that show that he doubted any amount of watching would catch him up.  When the television no longer claimed his interest, he flipped through whatever reading material was sorted about the flat—all things he had read before.  Bored, he decided to test out the new stuff Ripper had provided him with on his full head of brown curls.

William took his place in the bathroom, staring at the space of nothing reflected in the mirror.  After long minutes, he turned his gaze to the box, reading over instructions that he could have recited by heart.  "Well," he said, running a hand through brunette strands.  "Here goes nothing."

The process in itself didn't occupy as much time as he would have liked.  Within a half hour, he was bored again—meandering about the apartment in anticipation for the dye to set.  He finished off his pancakes, dipping the last in blood and licking his fingers clean.  Thoughts threatened to tread over territory he did not want to consider.  In twenty-four hours, he would be back in Sunnydale.  In twenty-four hours, her scent would taint the air with such potency that he would be surprised if it failed to provoke her to tears.  He tried to tell himself that things had changed, summoning three years' worth of memories.  He recited his status: a curator for a well-regarded library, a demon researcher, a _friend _of Giles's.  A good guy.  A—

_Filthy rapist._

The growl that arose in his throat pained and stretched and nearly tore his vocals out.  _No, no, no, no!  _he warred.  _What have I just spent the last years doing?  Proving that it's not me…proving—_

The demon would always be a part of him.  No amount of earthly redemption could change that.  In the end, it didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  He had endured time and trial, failed more times than was worth mentioning and passed a few.  Very few.  He had kneeled before a demon a lifetime ago, asked for the restoration of his former self, to _give him what he wanted,_ what _Buffy deserved._

A soul.  His soul.  Had he truly wanted that?  _Could _he want it?  Could a demon rise above probability and ask for the one thing that would…

It was beyond reasoning now.  Beyond the need to ask.  Three years of progression had driven him back to the starting point.  He never felt so lost.

A few minutes past noon, the silence of the apartment was perturbed by the sudden shrill of the telephone.  The phone rarely rang when he was here—Giles had that cell that he kept handy, reminding William that one of the administrators was scheduled to call sometime soon.  He released a needless breath, shaking his head and grinning tightly to himself.  "You're losing your edge, git," he murmured, moving to push himself off the couch.  "'Course, you've known that fer a while now."  He hauled to his feet, stumbling slightly and stubbing his toe on the coffee table just as he reached the phone.  A sharp ache jittered up his foot, and he bit a menacing, "Oh, bloody hell," before realizing the receiver was pressed to his ear.  "Sorry 'bout that, mate.  'Ello?"

There was a long, startled silence on the other end, followed by a sharp intake of breath.  William froze, his entire body growing numb.  He felt it climb up his legs, his abdomen, until he was standing—unmoving, horrified, panged, and speechless.  All humanly traits betrayed him; rendering him very much a standing corpse in the middle of the Watcher's flat.  Words rose within him, verses of long-forgotten poetry before all withered and died.  He wanted to breathe—wanted to fill his lungs, but found not the strength.

Then there was a voice.  A voice so heavenly, so hesitant that it made him jolt with pain.  It was the closest he had heard that voice in three, long years.

She whispered one word.  "…Spike?"

All sense of poetry abandoned him without warning.  He was flabbergasted—at a new loss of words.  A loud voice screamed just to answer her.  After all, he would be seeing her soon.  In a few precious hours, he would be under that inscrutable observation, pained with rekindled guilt and begging for another death.  A wealth of angst could be spared with the acknowledgement of what was inevitable, and yet his will refused to allow his mind to take the easy way out.  Not for his sake or hers.  Instead, he cleared his throat, adapting his voice as Gilesy as he could manage before summoning the courage to speak.

"Ummm…who?"

He frowned at his imitation.  It would be a miracle if she did not burst out laughing—or start screaming.  Extended silence tautened, and neither happened.  There was a huff of what could be construed as disappointment if one did not know better, followed by dreary recognition.  "Oh.  Never mind.  This is Rupert Giles's number, isn't it?"

He wanted to deny the claim but knew she would call back.  "Yes.  I am…" he searched his memory palace quickly.  Giles had given her a name long ago.  Something… "Fitzwilliam.  Yes.  Rip…Rupert's cousin."  _Rip…Rupert…bloody brilliant.  Very smooth, yeh wanker.  _"May I help you?"

It was quite possibly the worst English accent an Englishmen could portray.

"Yeah.  If you…he's not there?"

"No…he stepped out.  To—uhh—run a few errands."  William squeezed his eyes shot.  Was it too late to reveal his identity?  He was certain she knew already.  "Is this about…ummm…the family business?"

"Yes.  This is Buffy Summers. He's probably told you about me.  If he hasn't, he's dead."  There was a fond pause.  "Oh God.  He _has _told you about me, hasn't he?"

"Oh.  Yes, yes."  Told him?  William shuddered to think of the world where someone would have to tell him Buffy existed without knowing her.  Really know her.

"Good. Got kinda awkward there for a minute." _Sweet Jesus, you have no idea._ "Tell him I to talk to him immediately.  Something…majorly wiggy has happened.  Standard apocalyptic stuff."  She chuckled humorlessly, and he pictured her nervous grin and a roll of those beautiful eyes.  He soared with painful adoration.  "Pretty much the norm around here."  Another pause.  "Have you ever been to Sunnydale?  I can't remember—"

"No…no…I believe."  Speaking was odd.  He had never had to consider his vocabulary to such a degree as he did now.  "I think Riii…upret's planning a visit, anyway.  He—err—expressed a…ummm…desire to visit soon."  _That's right.  Stick to the big words._

"I know.  Ang…my friend called and said he had talked to Giles and that something major was in the works."

Great.  Peaches was already implicated.  That was swell.  

"Yes," William managed to croak.  "That chap in Los Angeles, right?  Angelus?" 

"Yeah."  There was another pause.  Darker.  Suspicious.  Then she sighed heavily, and it killed him to hear the fatigue in her tone.  The weariness.  The aspects of feeling deficient.  "I don't mean to be weird, but you really sound like a guy I used to know."

"Oh?" he choked, reaching for the couch in support.  "Who?"

The silence that followed was the hardest he had ever been made to endure.  Every fiber scurrying across his flesh seemed to tighten across his bones, his muscles hardening in tension.  When she responded with a quiet, "It doesn't matter," he thought he would break down into tears.  However, he managed to hold onto his wits long enough to jot down a message for Giles, give his respects, and place the phone back on the hook.  Then he could not stand it.  Pathetically, he collapsed to his knees, long, hard sobs racking his body.  He cried until he could force no more tears, hating himself for instability.  

"How many sodding years have to pass?" he demanded the silence.  

The dye was likely dry.  When he felt he could trust his legs, he warily made his way back to the bathroom.  There he crashed again—curling beside the shower, tearing at his vocals.  The evidence was there and he could not ignore it.  There was absolutely no way he would survive this trip.  If a phone call winded him, seeing her, watching her, feeling her betrayed hatred would surely be the end of him.

He wanted to tell that to Giles.  He had nearly convinced himself to when the conversation held the night before reverberated through an unwilling cavity. 

_I need someone I can trust her with._

As the last of his outburst finally subsided, William heaved a quaking breath from his chest and fought to his feet.  No, there was no backing out.  No turning back.  No changing his mind.  What he had to do was for her—and nothing, not this uprising evil, not the Scoobies, not even his selfishness would prevent him from doing his duty.

Even if it killed him.


	8. Home Sweet Home

**Chapter Seven**

She loved this time of night.  It was perfect—archetypal.  The sort of evening she had discussed in English class time after time.  The ground limber beneath her feet, breeze whispering sweet nothings through barren tree branches—oh, and yes class, a lovely graveyard to our left.  Stop and take a picture.  Keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times.  Wouldn't want to be caught by a nasty vampire.

This time of night, things were quiet, and she could pretend, if only for a minute, that Sunnydale was a normal town.  That the bruises lining her body were in ode to fights or something as juvenile as falling out of a tree. That she carried stakes wherever she went because it was the latest fashion trend.  That her sister made hobby of slaying demons and various creatures of the night out of boredom and not some ancient birthright.

Then, there was reality.

Thoughts drifted without direction.  Friends were undoubtedly gathering at the mall, blowing cash—save those numbered few who cracked open the books in preparation for approaching exams.  No one cared that she was meandering through a cemetery past dark, that any moment could be her last, that the harmless rustling over there behind the bushes was likely an immortal monster sent here to suck out her soul.

Of course, how could she hope to compete with the mall?

Even now, years later, it felt odd to be out here alone.  Every grave she crossed was still, but at least two new fledglings were on the roster for rising tonight.  Patrolling by herself didn't happen often unless there was something as completely mundane as research as the alternative.  And with recent development, there was a _lot _of research.  So she was out here by herself as the rest of the gang busied themselves with text and what-have-you from the Magic Box, hoping to crack some ancient jigsaw puzzle.

Alone.  Alone, and trusted with her ability.  It hadn't been that long since she was forbidden from watching rated R films, much less patrol these dangerous parts unaccompanied.  Dawn was not a little girl anymore, but she knew society had kindly placed her as the permanent baby by big sister standards.  She would likely be adhering sisterly advice until her teeth rotted out.  But things were different.  They really were.  The world was hers now—unguarded, big, and nasty.  And she knew how to fend.  Dawn Summers.  

She wasn't afraid.  And why should she be?  After all, she was the slayer's sister—well trained and most adept.  Trusted now to walk these paths alone.

To fight that evil.

Dawn paused in stride, leering to peak over her shoulder.  She would never master the art as Buffy had, but she was beginning to discern stomach growls from extra-sensory tinglies.  Yes—she even had the tinglies.  The past three years had molded her into a fighter none of the Scoobies could have fathomed or predicted.  It was a rough start, of course.  What wasn't nowadays?  But she had proved them all wrong—she had bested enemy after enemy, not as quick but pretty damn close to Buffy's skilled speed.

She felt she was being followed.

Not that it was an unusual occurrence.  Though such instances hadn't found need to rise to the occasion for the better part of the past year, she would often find herself sharing company with a concerned Xander or Willow.  Never Buffy, though.  The numbered patrol nights when she manned the field alone went undisturbed by the one person she thought would react with the most indignation.  Assurance was given with no quandary.  Dawn was trusted.

Most nights, patrolling was a sister thing.  A way to squeeze in some real quality time.  Right now, however, things were too muddled to really worry about the vampire population.  Two days before, three children had been born with their eyes facing inward.  A week preceding, a cat became the happy mother of a littler of snakes.  These things had happened before, of course, but for all the prophecy the Scoobies investigated, a viable source could not be pinpointed.  It was a mystery.

She was glad Giles was here.  Aside from it having been an ungodly amount of time since his last visit, Dawn couldn't shake the little girl feeling of warm security when he was around.  The past several years had been among the most difficult, and she always felt safe when he was around.  She wasn't fool enough to believe he had arrived with all the answers…but he was Giles.  Giles!  He always had a theory.  An idea.  A thought.

He had arrived the previous night without even calling of alert his flight number, much less the scheduled landing time.  Instead, they received a knock at the door near midnight, only to reveal a very worn but smiling Watcher.  They shared hugs, reprimands for failing to keep in better contact, and thoughts about the uprising evil.  Secrecy was a large issue—Giles was himself though distanced.  His tales of the past few years abbreviated to a quick sentence or two.  The old man rarely had motive to hide anything, which made Dawn all the more curious.  Something was up, she knew.  She just wished she knew what.

However, she didn't pry.  Giles was here, and as far as she was concerned, that was all that mattered.

Still quiet.  With a sigh, Dawn kicked a headstone and took seat.  Maybe things were going to be inactive tonight.  Perhaps the vamps had already arisen and she missed it.  Perhaps—but honestly, what were the odds?

She still felt like someone was following her.  Watching her.

The graveyard was a lonely place to travel alone.  Not frightening—just lonely.  Sometimes her feet carried her to places she knew were empty, yet investigated just the same.  She passed Spike's old crypt more often than she cared to admit.  He wasn't there—he was never there.  He had been gone for a long time, and everyone was comfortable with the notion that he was never coming back.

Time was the great healer, conflicting and teasing until she didn't know how she felt about what.  There had been hatred—rage—for a long time.  Toward herself.  Toward Spike.  Toward her sister.  The thought that someone she admired so much, _trusted _so much had attempted to take such brutal advantage of the one person she was closer to than anyone angered her beyond comprehension.  Sometimes he wished he would return just to have the satisfaction of ripping his head from his shoulders.  However, once the fire withered, she was left empty.  It was difficult to ignore the treacherous voice that whispered little nasty, _"It wasn't all his fault, you know." _

A very real part of her hated him.  The rest just wished he would come back, or at least let her know that he was all right.  

It was even more difficult to decipher her sister's thoughts on the matter.  Spike wasn't mentioned often, but when he was, her expression drifted and her eyes cast away.  She always seemed torn between tears and fury.

Perhaps she was.

Dawn froze suddenly, detecting some longstanding disturbance at last.  Unhurriedly, she pushed herself to her feet, reaching into the lapels of her jacket and producing a stake with secondary reflexes.

Listen.  Watch.  Wait.

Two vamps were buried three spaces away.  They were being considerate tonight; the first dust before the second had the time to battle through the dirt.  Expertly, Dawn whirled to face her opponent—dead-set in method, adapted flawlessly from her trainer.  The creature was a gangly thing—all fangs and leers.  She was not nearly as agile as Buffy, but she was quick. Maneuvering with haste, she leapt atop a headstone, leaning out of clawing each and throwing herself into the air to deliver a swift kick to the face.  The vamp growled, backtracked, and lunged.  It made it halfway over the tombstone, black blood dribbling from its nose.  Dawn made the observation without alarm.  That was one thing they never told Giles.  Though the freaky demon insignia never found occasion to repeat itself, vamps that pumped oil for innards were now regular occurrences.  She heaved a breath and rolled away, jumping to her feet as the creature recovered and made a mad leap for her. 

The events that accumulated the next few seconds happened too rapidly to make any logical sense.  A familiar blond head suddenly lunged in front of her, grasping the offending vampire by the shirt collar and issuing three good face punches.  Wiry strength—she had seen that before; worshipped it forever ago.  It was all there.  All in front her, and her eyes refused to believe it so.  She watched numbly as the peroxide blond beat the newblood senseless and tossed him aside long enough to flash her a cocky smile.

"'Evenin', Bit," he said anticlimactically.  

A second passed where all she could do was stare, then it was all business.  She was too occupied and irritated to further acknowledge his presence.  What had passed alone was danger enough.  The discarded vampire had scrambled to his feet and was coming in for the kill.  Her eyes widened and she wordlessly shoved Spike aside, wielding her stake until he was dust.

Heavy breaths escaped her heaving chest.  She leaned over and rested her palms on her knees.  It didn't seem she had moved enough to work up a sweat, but it was dripping off her in cups.  

The moment of recovery didn't last.  It was only then that she allowed herself to consider what had happened.  

Just minutes before she had asked herself how she would react if she saw him again, and fist clinched, she had her answer.  Dawn flexed her fingers and drew back to last Thursday; meeting his jaw with such blunt force it surprised them both.  Her flesh stung but she didn't betray herself by shaking the hurt away.  It was good hurt.  Justified.

The look in his eyes when he faced her again was heart rendering.  Gone was the smirk and characteristic self-assuredness, replaced now with the gaze of a broken man who had awoken to the worst sort of comprehension.  A hand absently caressed the burning skin at his jaw line but he did not attempt to put distance between them.  Instead, he stood passive, welcoming another blow.

Dawn's eyes narrows as her convicted anger began to waver.  She wanted to cling to her rage—to look at this…thing before her and see a monster.  And yet, the more she looked at him, the less the fire burned within her.  Dying, dying.  After all, he was still Spike.  Despite the hurt and the heartache, he was Spike.  Her once crush and, for a long time, her best friend.  

An animal.  A vampire.  A man.

A thing that had attempted to rape her sister.

"You bastard!" she spat venomously.  "Fucking rat!  How _dare _you show your face here!"

The creature's eyes softened with pain and her lower lip quivered in indecision.  "You've grown quiet a mouth on you, pet," he replied, breaking eye contact with a sigh.  "You out 'ere by yourself?"

"Yes."  Dawn's resolve was breaking, but she would be damned if she let him see that.  "Buffy's trained me well."  Emphatically, she raised the stake to eye level, quirking a brow at him.  There was no threat behind it.  Both understood it was for show.

Spike eyed her weapon and nodded, stepping back.  Was he trembling?  She couldn't tell—and didn't care, of course.  Why should she care?  Instead, she shook her head, finding her voice yet again.  "What are you doing here?"

"Got wind somethin' bad was cooking up," he replied, tone distorted and eyes unwilling to meet hers.  He watched his foot draw lazy circles in the dirt.  "Wanted to help."

Dawn snickered.  "Then trying to save me probably isn't the best start."

The vampire blinked and looked up, dazzled in confusion.  "What are you…oh.  Oh, no, luv.  _You.  _I want to help you, and the rest of the merry band.  Not sure how long I'm back fer…don't wanna—"

Coldly, she hammered in interruption, not wanting him the chance to explain.  If he went all noble on her, she would forgive him, and that couldn't happen.  "What?  Like you _helped_ the last time?"

Spike flinched and at last his eyes gave way, losing their confident swagger.  For a second, she thought he might cry, but he didn't.  The pain spawned from her remark said more than tears.  She ached but was vindicated.  It wasn't enough.  Before she could form another stinging retort, he had turned, he had turned his back to her, stalking away.  "I won't get in your way, Bit," he murmured, barely audible.  "Like your hair."

Attentively, she reached to finger her the strands where they had been cut to her ears.  It was a style she had sported for over a year now.  His attention took her by surprise.

He was far away by the time she found her voice.  Small, minimal, and only partially heartfelt.  "Thanks."

Then it was all business.  Dawn was packing.  She needed to get to Buffy.  Fast.

*~*~*

It was quiet now.  

The past few hours had traded space with silence and heated discussion.  Long intervals at a time.  Cut, slice, thrust and parry.  A dance traded back and forth through fevered voices and warring opinions.  And still, amongst the bickering, she was sure there were matters being evaded.  Idle theories tossed back and forth, debated, researched, and retired.

He knew something—it was wrought with painful articulation across his features.  He knew something and he wasn't sharing.

She would get it out of him soon.

It felt like old times in that really awkward sense.  The Magic Box hadn't seen a meeting this high in attendance in what felt like a century.  A sense of familiarity along with the tingly disappointment of foreign terrain.  Though none of the furniture had been rearranged, Giles didn't seem comfortable with any position he attempted.  He would stand, listen, nod, then fidget and move.  No chair could hold him. Very suspicious.  Very uncharacteristic—and she was the only one who seemed to notice.

A change of scenery and it would have felt like an honest-to-god time warp.  Xander was examining books behind the register as Willow fumbled around with magic terms, producing spontaneous definitions but nothing of definitive use.  Usual.  Nearly years out of high school and they were still researching.  Still the Scoobies.  It amazed her to no end.  In his customary corner was Angel.  Angel.  It was so weird seeing him now.  He had arrived slightly before the Watcher, shaken by Giles's beseeching phone call.  An uncomfortable rift was set between them, and try as she might, Buffy could not see a road to reconciliation, even of their tarnished friendship.  She had long ago abandoned the girlish fantasy of her one true love coming to his belated senses and whisking her away to some fairytale where the Hellmouth didn't exist.  Fate had placed her here, and inevitably when she did die—again and finally—it would be here.  In the line of duty.  For better or worse, Sunnydale was the only mate that hadn't run out on her.  Surprised or disappointed her.  It was always there, poking its ugly face around every catastrophe, sneering at lack of insight and throwing her the tightest curve just before she saw what was coming. 

No, she hadn't thought of Angel in that way for a long time.  In the past few years, her thoughts had wandered to him with less and less frequency.  There wasn't much to build on.  Once they had shared something and now it was over.  The tinglies she used to enjoy when enveloped in his presence had even faded to oblivion.  She couldn't sense him like she used to.  When she tried to feel anger at his leaving so long ago, all she could conjure was understanding and gratitude.  Gratitude!  Had someone told Buffy that six years before, she would have burst into tears.  And there he was—standing in the corner.  Always in corners.  Watching her, perhaps with the same acknowledgements of loss.  Loss of their bond.  Loss of their love.  Loss of anything that had once described the never-ending cycle of _Buffy and Angel 4-Ever!_

God, had she ever been so young?  

Drawing in a breath, the tired slayer's eyes landed steadfast on Giles.  He was staring off past her, hands ground into his pockets; gaze far and away, as though he were still in London.  It wasn't often that he was caught so off guard, and the implications surrounding such slips were usually cause for alarm.  She had seen that look before and didn't like it.  Call it slayer instinct, quiet estimations, or sheer paranoia: something was up.  Something big and bad and apocalyptic.

And he wasn't talking.

Xander, predictably, was the first to break the silence.  When he finished flipping through the latest text, he quietly looked up and cleared his throat.  "I got nothing," he announced.  "And I think that just about finishes off the last book in the place."

"Oh, don't worry," Willow retorted.  "I'm sure Giles brought some of his personal collection to peruse.  So don't take your study hat off, Mister."

Buffy grinned.

"No…I've already researched all my books," the Watcher replied unsteadily.  "What I…found…" His eyes met hers with fleeting repose.  There _was _something.  It was as plain as black and white.  He jittered uncomfortably when he read her gaze, turning away to rub the bridge of his nose.  These minute reactions were beginning to worry.  In all the years she had known him, the only time he had been shaken enough by an unfolding prophecy was the night she learned she had to face the Master and her imminent death.  Clearing his throat, he broke his gaze.  "How long have these…signs been appearing?"

"About a week," Willow replied, tightening her arms around her torso.  "I tried to call you but your cell never picked up.  Might be low on batteries or something."

The Watcher's eyes widened briefly before he nodded his understanding.  "Yes—I…at the library.  Researching the books the Council finally decided to let me see.  Will…Fitzwilliam and I have been looking through the old text and translating one language to another."  He stopped, smiling fondly.  "I still don't know how he pulled it off.  These…books predate any sort of history.  We dove headfirst into study.  It's fascinating.  Absolutely fascinating."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Xander said shortly.  "How about backtracking for the slow people.  Who's Fitzwilliam?"

"Giles's cousin," Buffy offered suddenly, speaking for the first time in over an hour.  Her mistrustful gaze narrowed at the Watcher for confirmation.  "I talked to him on the phone the night before you arrived.  He knows his stuff."

"Sounds like a carbon copy of the G-Man," came an observant voice behind the registers, quiet but loud enough so all could hear him.

No one, however, was paying attention.  Incredulous, Giles leaned forward and offered an ardent blink.  "You spoke with him?" he repeated, surprising her with his disbelief.  When she nodded, he shook his head and took a step back, attempting unsuccessfully to shake away the shock.  "Oh.  He didn't tell me." Secreted comprehension was pouring behind his eyes, more of that he would not share.  Buffy frowned.  Something was definitely up.     

A warm voice emanated from behind, warm and distant.  Her reaction to hearing him speak was disappointing.  Listening to Angel did little to reassure her.  Rather, she found herself constantly agitated when he spoke.  He was perhaps the only one present who sounded further away than the Watcher.

Again, she reflected how drastically her feelings had changed for him.  Once inseparable and now barely even friends.  There was no want of loss tugging at her heart.  He was Angel, he would always be Angel, but that was it. She was proud of herself, having long grown tired of regressing to a swooning teenager every time he was nearby.  The reaction she once idolized was nonexistent.  

More so, she could tell he felt the same way.  There was a wealth of nothingness where affection once resided.  What was more disconcerting was the lack of grief at the loss.  She would not wish things differently for anything.

"So we know a dark evil is arising," he said to the Watcher.  "But you don't know what?  Even with all this research you conducted with your cousin?"

Oh, but he did.  How was she the only one who could see that?  Buffy bit her lip and jumped to her feet.  If he wouldn't tell her in front of them, she would get them out.  There was no way he could keep something like this from her.  "That doesn't matter," she observed.  "What matters is he's back now, and—"

The bell above the Magic Box entryway announced another arrival, cutting her off in mid-sentence.  Buffy arched a brow as a visibly shaken Dawn stormed inward, eyes strained and grieved.  Her hair was rustled in the telltale sign of recent struggle; drying black blood stained her sweater.  A stake was coiled in her grasp; beads of sweat rolling down rugged splinters.  She only came in a few feet, commanding everyone's attention. When all eyes were on her, Dawn crossed her arms irately and sneered, "He's not the only one who's back," with a discreet nod toward the Watcher, who had suddenly gone pale.  "Ran into an old friend on patrol.  Spike's back in town."

All movement abruptly ceased and the air grew thick with manifest bewilderment.  Buffy was at a loss.  She stood there, motionless, her heart freezing before beginning a wild palpitation.  Suddenly her lungs had to be reminded that they had a job, her hands growing clammy as her body begged to break down into tremors.  She sensed angry, startled words from Xander and was too numb to speak out first.  Cold confusion from behind.  Angel knew nothing of the past indiscretions.  Giles didn't speak.

Slowly, Buffy became aware of a hand at her shoulder.  Warm and supportive.  It was Willow.  As though the touch engulfed a need for air, she finally drew in a quaking gasp, hand shooting to her mouth.  

Back?  How…

"He is a dead man!" Xander finally erupted, then paused.  "Again.  Wait'll I get my hands—"

His invective was interrupted by Buffy's sudden burst of tears.  Thick breaths heaved from her chest, air constricting tightly as Willow guided her to the corner, making no attempt to calm her.  She was aware of people staring and didn't care.  There was no room for thoughts or rationality—nothing but the sobs racking her body and the inward mantra that screamed, _He came back he came back he came back…_

Then her friend started again, voice coated in outrage even she couldn't suppress.  He was behind her, trying unsuccessfully to compensate neglected caresses on her other shoulder, convinced without suggestion that her tears were the product of similar fury and betrayal.  "Don't worry, Buf," he murmured reassuringly.  "We'll get him.  We'll stake him so dead, he—"

"No!" she cried, surprising him with her insistence before realizing that her voice rivaled another in swift protest.  It was Giles.  For the life of her, he looked so panicked at Xander's anger that she thought he might hogtie him to keep him from doing anything drastic.

As her body began to calm, all eyes fell dubiously on the Watcher.  He offered no comment.

"No?" Xander repeated in disbelief.  _"No?_  Hello?  Has everyone forgotten what that bastard did, cause I sure haven't.  I swear, the next time I see that bleached head, I'm gonna—"

"Tried," Buffy corrected miserably, taking him aback.  She was still sniveling.  "Tried.  He didn't actually get anything done."

"I remember."  Dawn's tone was cold but torn.  Inconsolable.     

"What did he do?" Angel stepped forward in concern, attempting to intervene and comfort his former love, but she pulled away with fervor.  The only person allowed to touch her was Willow.  She was the only one who understood.

"Tried to rape Buffy," Xander snarled through gritted teeth, nodding victoriously as the vampire's eyes went yellow with rage.  "That's right!  I'll stake that evil dead sonofabitch so fast, he—"

"Perhaps you didn't hear me."  The Watcher was speaking with definitive albeit low force.  "If anyone attempts to harm Spike, they must answer to me."

A long beat of astonished silence engulfed the room.

"What the hell is this?!" Xander screeched.  "You're _defending _that—"

"Shut up!" Buffy's voice had the most authority of all, and the room fell still.  When she had all eyes on her, she sighed as the last of her tears dried to her cheeks.  Three years and still no one but Willow had realized whose coat adorned her shoulders.  Time was a hefty wearer, but on good days, the leather still smelled like him.  It was bittersweet.  Buffy had acknowledged her injustice long ago, even if she could never admit her love.  Over time, the hole in her heart had grown too broad to deny she missed him.  She missed him a lot.

Still her feelings were muddled.  Old sparks of rekindled war fired within her.  It was the same tune to the dance she had performed over and over in the duration of the past few years.  She missed him—it had taken her long to admit even that.  Long after she started wearing his coat, long after she started flicking her head in shrouded hope that the cigarette smoke wafting from a distance was him lighting up, long after she could enter her bathroom without flinching.  Missing him was one thing; forgiveness was another.  

It hurt her to think that forgiveness was not tipping the scale in just his direction.  She had done her world of wrong.  She had hurt him more than he ever hurt her.

And now…

Steadfast, Buffy pulled away from Willow's protective presence and approached Giles, stopping before him and burning her eyes into his.  "All right.  What's going on?"

The Watcher traded gazes with her for long minutes, his pupils contracting in apology but obstinacy.  Slowly, a sad grin spread nether his lips and he heaved a breath of rugged displacement.  "My words were misleading," he said softly.  "I would have told you sooner…but we agreed that everything was best left as it was.  He never believed he would be back here again."

"Giles…" Her voice was trained and patient, but she didn't know how long that would last. 

Releasing another sigh, he shook his head and closed his eyes, as though wishing himself away.  "I have no cousin Fitzwilliam," he confessed, looking to her sharply as comprehension dawned.  "But an annoying coworker who occasionally assumes the alias William Ripper II.  It was before I brought Willow back from England.  I met Spike outside a café.  He was…a little worse for the wear."

"So instead of plunging a righteous stake through his chest, you took him in?" Xander yelled sharply.  "How could you?  You know what he did!  He—"

Giles smiled wearily, not offended by the accusation.  "I didn't understand, either.  For a long time…he never attempted to deny his fault.  I—"

"But you hate Spike!" Dawn interjected violently.  "You've never given him the single benefit of a doubt!  Why start then?"

"He has helped me tremendously over the past few years," he retorted, eyes growing dark with agitation.  "And—"

"So you lied to us.  All this time.  Working for—"

"He asked—begged me not to let his intervention be known."  Giles sighed, turning to Buffy to avoid further interruption.  "He didn't want you to stop hating him, no matter what he set himself to do to make reparations.  Whether or not you believe him is your regard.  I will hear no more of it.  Wi…Spike wanted to avoid returning for this very reason."  He took a throaty pause when he saw she was again close to tears.  "He begged me to come without him, but I couldn't.  I need…we will need all the help we can get."

Truth fell to deaf ears.  With swift irritation, Xander stalked forward and nodded vehemently.  "Yeah…didn't wanna be staked.  Knew what would happen to him, that ass!  And you believed this?  How—"

"It's been three years," Giles retorted shortly.  "For God's sake, don't you think I realize what occurred?  I know perfectly well.  I nearly killed him when I first saw him in London, but I was able to see passed that.  You _must _trust my judgment on this.  I've worked side-by-side with him, hours on end.  I've taken naps while he researched and he's done the same.  He's had to endure the knowledge of his crimes this long; he fell to his knees sobbing when I told him we had to come back.  So you see, Xander, I don't give a bloody damn what your motives are.  Spike is here as a favor to me, and he leaves when I do."

A sensical voice rose again, dark with anger and the promise of vengeance.  As though he had tuned himself out of the room for the past five minutes and was still focused on the heartland of duplicity.  "You forget," Angel growled.  "You all somehow forget that he's a demon.  He—"

"He won't hurt Buffy any more than you would."

_"Hurt? _Hello?" Xander was pacing now, firmly ignoring the expression coloring the Slayer's face or the way Willow had wormed her way back to her side to continue the reassuring pats to her shoulder.  "He tried to _rape _her!"

"That's enough!"  Buffy screamed.  "If anyone's to decide what happens to Spike, it should be me.  Not Giles, not Xander, and _definitely _not Angel.  Not like this."  Willow squeezed her shoulder as she ignored the questioning looks being fired from all angles.  "I…no one's going to do anything.  I want…" Breathing harshly, she turned to her former watcher.  "I spoke with him, then.  That was him on the phone when I called?"

A resolved nod.  "Yes.  I was wondering why he was so gutted when I arrived that evening."       

  Buffy pursed her lips and nodded, tears welling again.  "How could you not tell me?"

"It was for the best.  He was consumed with…" The word 'guilt' formed effortlessly, but he did not want that association.  Not yet.  "Wi…Spike has been extremely helpful to me.  He will not bother you if you don't seek him out.  Once this is over, we will return to London and resume our studies.  You won't see him if you don't want to."

Pain engulfed her at the thought, but she could not allow herself to express such emotion.  Not here.  Not in front of the scrupulous eyes of her former love and best friend.  Excreting a breath, she nodded, tightening the duster around her torso.  "All right," she agreed.

Xander opened his mouth and was silenced before he could speak.  "All.  Right," she repeated with force.  "No more discussion.  I'll…I can't deal with this right now.  I'll see him tomorrow."

"Please."  Giles seized her arm with such raw insistence it sent a shudder up her spine.  "If you're thinking of hurting him…leave it be.  It took him three years to progress this much.  I—"

"Hurting _him?!"  _Xander shrilled, unable to help himself.  "But—"

"All right."  With as often as that phrase had escaped her lips within the past two minutes, one might think it could not continue to elicit such a response from the peanut gallery.  However, she didn't pay attention.  Something screamed behind Giles's eyes hat implored her to obey.  "Where is he?"

"Staying in the graveyard.  Not his old crypt—something temporary."  He sighed.  "I was worried…I tried to put him up in a motel.  He hasn't had to sleep somewhere so…vampiric in quite a while.  He declined, of course.  He has the most insufferable pride."

"You were going to give him money?" Xander repeated in disbelief.  "Was he living with you?"

"Whether you like it or not, Spike is a friend.  He has helped me efficiently for some time now.  I would not have those books without his assistance."  Another pause.  "No.  I wasn't offering him money.  He has enough of that on his own.  And please—some credit.  He is a terrible pain sometimes.  I couldn't stand to live with him.  The very notion offends him.  'Won't look like a sodding poof' is what directly comes to mind."  Angel flinched, angry but immotile.  "No, he has his own flat."

"An apartment?"

"Comes with the job."  Giles sighed, shaking his head in the mocking imitation of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  "That's all.  I'm not breathing another word.  I've said too much as it is.  Good night, everyone."  Then he was gone, just like that, disappearing in a blaze before the bell above the door could signal his departure.

For long seconds, all she could do was stare at the place her Watcher had vacated, cold and empty.  An eternity could have passed and she would not have noticed.  The ridges tears had carved into her face felt deep, slightly swollen eyes shutting once with pain and opening with resolution.  Willow was to her left, watching her carefully.  Thank God there was someone there to turn to.  Someone who had long ago bore into her protective psyche to scare out what was infinitely bothering her.

It would be Willow.  She was the only one to trust with such dark secrets.  

Buffy dimly expected Xander or Angel to begin another onslaught of accusations, but neither moved—too stunned or angry to do much of anything but stand and stare at her.  Perhaps at another juncture, such blatant ignorance would have annoyed her had she not remembered that her own viewpoint differed little when Spike was around.  

A night in an alleyway meant many things to them.  Heat or rage, resentment and desire.

"You don't have a soul!"  Punch.  Hit.  Punch.  That's it.  That's a good slayer.  Make the nasty, evil, adorable vampire bleed. "There is nothing good or clean in you. You are dead inside! You can't feel anything real! I could **never** be your girl."

Was she really beyond that?  

A flinch coiled inwardly at the revival of another memory.

His body, so heavy on hers, hands prying at her bathrobe, ignoring her throes and cries of protest.  Something terrifyingly feral sparked in his eyes.  He has lost control.  "I'm gonna make you feel it!"  And he doesn't hear her, doesn't realize what he's doing until she's pushed him off, kicking him to the far side of the room, watching unsympathetically as realization dawns and self-implied horror seizes command.  "Oh God, Buffy.  I—"  

She had never feared him, truly feared him, until that night.

Buffy released a quaking breath and tried desperately to summon some form of anger.  Violation.  Betrayal.  She had only cried over it once, after he left, sat there in dim confusion and hurt until Xander found her.  How long had it taken?  But after all was said and done, after Willow lost herself to magic, after the world had nearly ended at the hands of her best friend, the one thing she couldn't make herself feel was hate.  

She had waited so long for him to return and grew each minute with that horrible understanding that the day would never arrive.  And why should she mourn his loss?  

To say 'I'm sorry.'  To admit I was no more right than you were.

But to love him?  That day was even further away.  While Spike, against all probability and forbidden hope had defeated logicality, admittance of love might never come.

He's evil.  I can hate evil, kill evil, toy with evil, kiss evil, even sleep with evil.  But I can never love evil.  If I love evil, it makes me evil.  And I am not evil.

That argument sounded less convincing every time she rehearsed it.

Willow had moved next to her, surrounding her in the protective silent sheath, guarding her from prying eyes. "What are you going to do?" 

"Nothing."  Buffy heaved a sigh and turned at last, a cold space following her with every step.  They were watching her; Xander and the vampire, but she didn't care.  The sparks flying behind Angel's eyes were as outraged as she had ever seen, with or without a soul.  It frightened her: the sort of look that delivered the vague conception that he would finish off his childe regardless of her will.  And he would, because he was Angel and that was what he did.  Protected her to a fault while claiming that a slayer should attempt to have a normal life, masking the knowledge that such would never be.  A normal man simply wasn't…man enough.

"I have to get out of here," she announced suddenly.  "I have to—"

"I'll walk you home," Angel offered.  There was fire in his voice.  He was just itching to run into the peroxide vampire along the way.

"No.  I'm going to the Bronze.  Anya said she was going to meet us there later, anyway.  I…I can't be home tonight."  The implications sounded horrible, and she paused, coming back with a swift rejoinder.  "Listen to me.  No one touches him.  Understand?  I'll find him tomorrow and talk to him.  I've earned that…no one else."

Xander scoffed, features twisted with rage.  "What?  Gonna let him—"

"That's enough!"  Buffy turned to him violently, accompanied by Willow's glare.  "Listen.  I know you hate him.  I know you never understood why.  I know you felt he took Anya away from you.  I know everything is my fault.  All right?  I get that.  You can't guilt me into not seeing him, Xan.  He won't hurt me.  You know he won't hurt me."

"No, I don't," he replied impatiently.  "And—PLEASE!—this has nothing to do with Anya.  So over that.  It's you.  Don't you get it?  It's always been you.  I saw what happened to you.  I was there, remember?  I…I can't stand the thought of you like that again.  You actually trust him?  After everything?"

She swallowed hard, provoked to tears again.  Xander was stubborn and critical, duplicitous in every sense, but still…Xander.  Xander was Xander in a way separate from Angel was Angel.  Xander in a wonderful way.  Xander in a best friend way.  Xander in an I'll-Always-Be-Here way.

"No," she replied at last, sighing heavily as relief seeped through his gaze.  "But I trust Giles.  He wouldn't have brought Spike along if he thought there was the slightest chance—"

"There's always a chance," Angel growled, his tone contorting her insides with a flash of disgust.  Here it came.  The 'I've been there and you haven't so shut the hell up and listen to the expert' speech.  "He's a demon, Buffy.  No matter how good he may seem to be, he can't deny his nature too long.  And if it's been three years, I'd say the animal is ready for a break."

Eyes glittering with conviction, she clocked her heel and spun to face him, teeth grinding with impervious resolve.  "He.  Won't.  Hurt.  Me."

"How can you be this blind?  After everything…"

"What?  Just because you're a prick when you're without a soul, every vampire has to follow that?"  The hurt that flashed across his eyes was almost worth the stab her heart took in turn.  "You weren't here, Angel.  You weren't here when he endured torture to protect Dawn, or cleaned me up after I clawed through my grave.  Or was there to hang on to when life became so hard that I felt like killing myself."  Little good it did, she added inwardly.  "I was the only one who was there when he tried…the only one who saw his face.  I'm the only one he hurt, so I get to talk to him.  End of discussion."  The only one who knows he hurt himself more than he hurt me.  

But those words wouldn't come.  

Instead, she brushed passed the two warring alpha males, tossed a concerned look to a confused Dawn—visibly ripped between loathing and sorrow—before approaching Willow and guiding her into the corner.

"Do me a favor," she whispered.  "Find him.  Talk to him.  I need someone to—"

"It's done," her friend replied with a smile.  "Now shoo.  Off to the Bronze with you.  No more thinking allowed tonight."

Buffy nodded and forced a smile.  "Right."  She turned to the rest of the gang, noting Xander and Angel exchanging a few words while her sister continued her relentless stare, engaged in deep, bellicose thoughts.   

"Now," she said, commanding attention with her completely altered tone. Everyone stared at her, unnecessarily dumbfound that she could regress with such ease. They should know better by now.  "We're going to party.  Really.  I need to get a good night out before the apocalypse.  No more mention of Spike…is that understood?  I'll cross that bridge when I get there."

Reluctance sheathed Xander's eyes as he muttered his agreement, but she knew not to get the same promise from Angel.  He was hurt and he sensed something.  The conversation she always dreaded having with him began to fester and would soon be unavoidable.  How much he understood already was in the eye of the beholder.

He pressed his hand dictatorially against the small of her back, guiding her outdoors as they fell into pace—the walk long ago etched in their memories.  Magic Box to the Bronze.  Truly like old times.  "You will explain all this to me someday, won't you?" he whispered.

Damn him.  Damn that sotto voce of his.  Damn that sensory that warmed up by instinct rather than reaction.  Damn the tugging at her heart that led her not to this vamp, but to another.  Damn the knowledge that she couldn't hide her past forever.  Nope.  Tried that with Riley.  Didn't work out too well.  "It's none of your business," she retorted.

"Oh no.  I don't think so.  I believe I am entitled to know what my childe did to my former girlfriend, and why she insists so firmly on defending his goodwill when she knows just as well as I do what he is, and what he will never be."

Buffy shuddered, pausing alongside Angel, pushing more space between them and the two ahead, talking quietly.  When Willow had slipped away, she did not know.  She was glad, so glad to have a friend who understood.

"Because," she continued a second later, "he loves me.  And whatever he did that night…I'm not sure I hadn't hurt him more than that."

To that, her vampire companion hardened but did not reply.  She read his silence glumly—familiar and unwanted heartache setting in.  The confirmation she never wanted, never needed.  Demons weren't supposed to love—sure.  The year Angel had spent as Angelus had proved that in the worst approach.  However, he knew Spike better than anyone, and understood the capacity for love.  He had witnessed his loving care when Drusilla needed him, his harsh dedication and surprising monogamy.  He had endured a lot where love was concerned.  No one could ever rebuke Spike's permanent stature as love's bitch.

But that wasn't enough.  It didn't excuse anything.

"You're saying by avoiding him you hurt him enough to deserve what he did to you?"

"No."  Buffy paused in stride.  "I'm saying by using him the way I did…selfishly, like I did, I hurt him worse than he could have ever attempted to hurt me."

Then she walked away, leaving Angel to stand in the dawn of comprehension, horror and disappointment. She expected to feel cold, but didn't. The good opinion of her former lover was something she no longer craved.

You see…now **that **was evil.

But it had to be said.  No one could understand.

No one except the two people who had been there.


	9. Red

**Chapter Eight**

It was odd to think of Sunnydale as cold, but the autumn nights could get downright chilly. Perhaps it was the ambiance—the feel of an arctic front. Soon the cavalry would come rushing in. They always did. Prepared with crosses and holy water to give him another death. A pack of wolves, they were. Talk and conspire: preparations before the hunt and inevitable kill. 

He hadn't been surprised by Dawn's reaction—just hurt. Like he lost his best friend in the world. 

Yes, they would be coming soon. Giles would likely attempt to stop them but they wouldn't listen. Why should they? He was a monster. An untamed animal that committed a horrible crime. A beast that deserved to be put down. 

Such knowledge, however, did little to convince his feet to stop their course and run hard in the other direction. She had reached them, he knew, and his time ran short. Every step signified furthering his own death warrant. But he had to do it. Just once. He had to see her. 

Revello Drive was just as he remembered, the air dry and unwavering, teasing him remorselessly with her scent. It was difficult to breathe. He smiled wryly at the irony. A century spent without a need for oxygen, and a few years practice could make him miss the thrill. The feel—the necessity to just once be human. 

William was unaccustomed to feeling cold, to shivering as it collided with his skin. When the house was in view, he stopped dutifully in his approach. The windows were dark and no sound escaped the walls. A car was parked in the driveway but he could tell without needing confirmation that no one was home. For a minute, he didn't know whether to feel relief or disappointment. The gap of emptiness filling his heart broadened to the point of intolerability. 

What if she had seen him? What could he have said? What could possibly come out of his mouth to make petty justification for his misgivings? 

Nervously, William reached for his cigarettes and flipped open his lighter. His feet commanded him to move, but he remained stationary. They weren't coming home anytime soon. It was Friday night, after all. Why come home when there was the Bronze as an alternative? 

Especially with the information Giles had undoubtedly shared. 

William exhaled a long puff of smoke. He hadn't needed a cigarette this bad since that first horrible guilt-filled morning. A few more years in London might have seen the end of the addiction altogether. 

Right now, though, it was exactly what he required to keep from leaping out of his skin. 

The air suddenly stirred with a hint of breeze, sending a familiar scent his direction. William froze; fag dangling between his lips, knowing whom it was without needing to see her. Amazing how sharp the senses had developed in recent years. There was no doubt in his mind. 

Dimly, he understood this was likely to be a repeat of Dawn's hurtful onslaught. William's eyes fogged, but he refused himself the much-desired tears. Though he knew it was not possible, he had to contend the chance that he could do his promised help and leave without anyone becoming any more the wiser of his altered condition. 

No—it wouldn't happen. Couldn't. 

So they would come in turn. After Red would be Harris, then Peaches, and finally Buffy. Maybe Buffy and Peaches together, to make it all the more vengeful. A pain constricted in his chest and he cowered. Without taking his eyes off the approaching figure, he began to back away, slowly at first but with ongoing haste. 

Red had other ideas. Without so much as a quirk of the eyebrow, she extended her hand and authorized a controlled, "Stay." 

Then he couldn't move. His legs locked in place and held even as his torso attempted to keel forward. With guarded emphasis his feet plowed into the cement, sending a cloud dust and debris to battle wafting cigarette smoke. It was over. Over before it began. There was no point in arguing with a witch. 

She was approaching slowly and he allowed himself a shiver of fear. The past few years had filled his head with unspeakables, things Giles told him about his Red— things he hadn't allowed himself to believe. Now, with that look in her eyes, he saw where her power had derived. Anger. Hatred. Emotions he used to feed on with such regularity. An enemy from all sides. 

But he couldn't let her see his understanding. It was time to slip into character. Puffing a deep drag off his cigarette, he flashed the loudest grin he could manage and drawled a saucy, "'Evenin', Red. How—" 

He realized too late that the spell on his legs was uplifted, and for the second time that evening, William found himself with a faceful of angry fist. The impact of the blow was more powerful than he would have expected from Willow - blunt with no magic behind it. Just the need for strong, old-fashioned retribution. He wondered absently if Anya were still lurking around. Without ceremony, he was sent harshly to the pavement, a loud, "Oh, bloody hell!" escaping his lips. 

"That's for what you did to her!" she snarled. Good Lord, he had never seen her so angry. He had never seen _anyone_ so angry. His past was all anger—colorful, angry, and bloody. It was what he fed on once upon a time. Not now, though. Willow's eyes flashed with malicious intent, as though willing him one mistake. One reason beyond the list of misdemeanors she could derive to send him straight to hell. He didn't dare. 

As he struggled to his feet, another merciless blow caught his jaw, sending him back with forthright insistence. He had seen that one coming but hadn't the will to protect himself. 

"That's for running out of town!" she spat, circling him with predator's instinct. 

The next would be the last, he knew. Sod the lot of them, Red was going to finish him off now, before Harris or Peaches got a say in the matter. She was welcome to it—it was fitting. A sort of poetic justice. 

However, nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. Willow advanced again, eyes shooting daggers as the words came, harsh and ground through her teeth. "And this is for coming back." He drew in a quaking breath and waited for the final blow that never came. Instead, he was sent back to the pavement, body suddenly crushed against an armful of Rosenberg. She was still for only a minute, her hands coaxing his face to her neck, so trusting that he could not help the lump that grasped his throat, tears springing to his eyes before he could think of stopping himself. They were still for long moments—timid and quiet, as though he expected her to yet finish him off. When she felt his body stiffen and relax, she tightened her embrace, encouraging participation in a hug, chaste and comforting. "This is for coming back," she repeated soothingly. 

It was too overwhelming to tolerate. William felt himself dissolve, no longer willing himself to hold back. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, arms drawing her as close as possible. In so many years, it had never occurred to him that what he needed was a good hug. He heaved his frustrated agony on to her, and was rewarded with a constricted cuddle. Never before had he experienced something that offered more reassurance. 

But it was wrong. It was so wrong. Willow should have killed him. She should not be holding him, cradling his head with faith of his goodwill, hushing his tears and gently rocking him back and forth. There was no reason for civility. 

Oh God. 

With sudden force, William tore himself away, falling backward onto the pavement, eyes heavy with relentless sobs. "Oh Jesus," he gasped. "What did Ripper tell you?" 

"Ripper?" Willow frowned in confusion, then brightened with a spark of memory. "Oh! Giles! Right. I knew that. He said that you've been working with him. That you helped him get those mega important books, and that you've been really mopey about what happened... no matter..." Suddenly, she stopped and her hand shot to her mouth, pupils going wide with awful comprehension. "Oh God..." she gasped, looking at him as though she had just seen him. "Oh God..." Timidly, she reached to him, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes, catching the brown roots he had missed from the hasty dye job. William flinched at the tenderness, insides screaming for release. "What did you do?" 

He dropped his gaze with a sigh, pulling away from her touch. "Did it for her," he whispered. "Least that's what I tell myself, nowadays." 

"H...how? A curse?" 

"No. Got myself to Africa." His voice was so soft, so hesitant that he even had difficulty hearing himself in the dead of night. "Went there right after. Thought I'd deprogram myself. I was so...I'd buggered things up for everyone, and I knew it. Was hurtin' too much with knowin' what I did to her, knowin' that I shouldn't... it was so hard loving her when I knew I shouldn't. Wanted to chase the other puppies again. Thought so, anyway." His vision clouded with tears once more. "Bloody well nearly killed myself. Probably should've died there. Wish I had at times. Like now. But I passed. By George, I passed. Got told I could have what I wanted. Turns out I wanted this." He took her hand in his, marveling at her unquestioning trust and placed it over his heart, grimacing his pain. "It burns, Red." 

She nodded as though she understood, feeling before retracting the touch quickly as though scathed. "Oh God," she murmured. "The pain... I can..." 

"Y'aren't supposed to be workin' mojo," he berated softly, drawing back. "Ripper told me what happened. He—" 

"It's just for show, this no magic policy." She offered a soft, sad smile. "Keeps the Scoobies from wigging out too much. It overpowers me, Spike. I don't use it much—I can't—but I also can't get rid of it. It lives in me." 

"Like a demon. You're wicked powerful." 

"Instead of just wicked." With a huff, she pulled herself to her feet and helped him do the same, wiping dirt and pebbles from the creases in her clothing. "I was so upset when I came home and Buffy told me you had split." His brows perked in surprise. "Then she told me what happened." 

William closed his eyes. "How?" he choked. "How can you be so... understanding? You're supposed to hate me, luv. I buggered things up so badly. I—" 

"Yeah... but... this makes sense. Too much sense." Willow shook her head, looking mighty confused for someone who insisted she had it all worked out. "Maybe if things were different...but you have a soul. So it wasn't you. We've been through this once with Angel. Don't make me recite the whole vampire/soul logic." 

He sighed, shaking his head. "No, you don't get it. It was me. Maybe not completely, but—" 

"I came to find you, Spike. You—soul or no soul. Really thought it'd be no soul. You threw quite a curve at me. Regardless of what happened, it's in the past. I would be here with you even if you were all bumpy and saying you hated us, because I never believed that." When his brows perked dubiously, she rolled her eyes and continued, "Well, granted when you tried to bite me, I believed you. And when you sold us out to Adam. A-and when you wouldn't help us get Faith because...and..." She stopped when she saw his face, eyes going wide with the decency to look sheepish. "All right. You hated us. Big whup. You also loved us, you know. Not just Buffy. Don't think I don't know how many times you helped her. Even before you were all chips ahoy, you were like that... ultra-cool vamp you wouldn't wanna stake unless you were cornered. You've always been different from the other vamps. Like a buddy-vamp. A best friend vamp, in a way Angel never was. Even more still, a lot has happened since then." Willow shook her head. "Don't you get it? She's missed you." 

Those three words nearly killed him. All at once, the world was spinning too fast for him to catch up, a nauseous growl rumbling from his stomach. He felt like sinking forward, like melting into the concrete, like setting himself aflame if only to forget the throbbing in his chest. The hot white ache that stretched the length of his body with the burden of guilt and the false hope of eventual release. Missed him. _Missed_ him? How was that possible? After everything that had passed, everything she had put him through, ever said to him, everything he had done to _her_... 

"Why?" he gasped at last. "Why would she ever have missed me? After what I did? After—" 

"I don't know," Willow answered truthfully. "I honestly don't know. She doesn't, either. All I know is everything was fine when I got back. Normal—or as normal as it gets around here. Then I saw her wearing your duster. Well, I kinda noticed that it was yours. I mean, I'd never seen you without it or her wear it before...or anyone _but_ you wear it. I asked her and she just started crying." 

William's eyes watered again and he turned away before she could see. He had wept only a few minutes ago openly on her shoulders, but he couldn't let her see these tears. "God," he whispered. "Damn screwy world we live in. Things'd be so less confusing if everyone just hated me like they're supposed to." Desperately, he turned back to her, uncaring of the tears that glittered his eyes, and seized her by the shoulders. "Why doesn't she hate me? Why... how could she have ever missed me? Sod it all, Red. I can't do this." 

She blinked in surprise. "What?" 

"She's _supposed_ to hate me! Understand? She's supposed to hate me forever for what I did." 

"You'd think so. You'd also think that you'd hate _her_ for what she did to _you_." 

With a flash of anger, the vampire growled and retracted his grasp. The very insinuation almost provoked him to release his demon, just in raw frustration for her utterly blind misconception. "How can you say that?" 

"Just as easy as you can say she should hate you." Red stepped back and allowed him space. "There's...we talked about this, Spike. A lot. Buffy was angry for a long time. With herself—not you. She wanted to be angry with you. I think she was _hurt_, sure, don't get me wrong. Wouldn't be human if she wasn't. But I don't think she was ever _angry_. Not with you." 

A sob. "Why not?" 

"You'll have to ask her." There was a long pause, wearing and traumatic. Never had he thought his return would initiate anything but further resentment. It hurt more than he could bear to think all this time she might have willfully forgiven him. Coping with Giles's pardon was difficult enough. In this state, hers might duly destroy what was left. 

When Willow spoke again, her tone was low, perhaps soothing, perhaps impatient. He couldn't tell anymore. "Come on," she said, once more grasping his arm and pulling him toward the house. "I want to show you something." 

William's eyes widened and he attempted in vain to jerk back. "No, no!" he cried pathetically. "I can't go in there." 

"Don't make me force you." There was danger behind her voice. "Don't be a coward. You don't deserve her if you're a coward." 

"I don't want to deserve her, pet. I don't _deserve_ to deserve her." 

_A sudden flash. He sits up, wincing in pain, looking his reward in the eyes. "So you'll give me what I want. Make me what I was, so Buffy gets what she deserves."_

The vampire exhaled deeply, shaking his head. He tried unsuccessfully to push his fear aside, but it came back and in greater numbers. And yet there would be no turning back. Part of braving the world was facing what one didn't want to. This was what he asked for, regardless of consequences. What _he_ deserved. 

"Then you won't," Willow replied, releasing him. "And she won't deserve you. You'll go through time just... not deserving each other. What a waste. Don't you get it? She hurt you, too. You hurt each other. Seems to me if you've been this miserable so long, and if she's missed you—whether she admits it or not, neither one of you will ever get what you want." 

"And what do I want, Red? You seem to know a bloody lot." 

"You want forgiveness and love. You came to the right place. Forgiveness And Love Central." She beamed proudly, then frowned. "Unless you're you and the welcoming committee is Xander. But you do...it's what you want. Forgiveness and love. And her." 

"How can you be sure? I'm not Spike, luv. I don't know who I am." 

Willow snickered and rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Like anyone couldn't look at you and know how much you love her? Geez, you're worse than Angel." Wrong thing to say. When she saw the look on his face, she stumbled over herself, stuttering a quick recovery. "I mean... your lovey-doveyness. You did things for her he never did. Things Riley couldn't do. Besides, you're not as secretive as you might think, Buster." She stepped forward again and placed her hand over his chest. They both winced. "I can feel you. I can feel your love for her, and the torment you put yourself through. It wouldn't hurt you like this if you didn't love her." A thoughtful pause. "You understand what... you killed people, Spike. I killed people. We're the same." She stopped again, trailing off. "I needed you here so much when I came back. Someone who'd been there, who could understand what I was going through." 

William smiled softly, running his hand across her cheek. "We're not the same, Red. You might have been a bad dog, but we're not the same. Never think that. We're not the same." He sighed and cast his eyes to his feet. "I'm sorry, pet," he whispered. "I'd've been here if I wasn't so bleeding selfish. I mean, looky. Went to fix myself up because of what I'd done. To me, it was always about her." 

Red sighed and returned his grin, just as humorlessly. "It still is." She took his hand once more, then dropped it, nudging him toward the house. "Come on. I want you to see this." 

Reluctance clamored under every step, but he followed—hands free and stuffed tightly into his pockets. It was a path he could have taken with his eyes closed. The sensations welling in his chest were enough to make him burst. 

Willow no longer lived there, he knew, but she still possessed a key. When the door was open, she disappeared inside, leaving him to himself. When she came back and saw his indifference, she frowned and crossed her arms. "Well...what are yah waiting for?" 

"You don't live here any more, pet." 

"So?" 

"I need an invite from someone who—" 

"Spike." Firm insistence flashed behind her eyes. "Try it." 

His eyes narrowed skeptically, unwilling to admit that had it been beating, his heart would have leapt at the implication. With precision he stepped forward, wanting to prolong this moment of faith before willing it to be shot down. At the doorway he paused, looked up once more, and placed one foot inside, waiting to be thrown back by the ever-present invisible barrier. 

It never came. Astonishment filled him whole. Then he was inside—inside the house he had not seen since that night. The air was so overwhelmingly her that he had to stop and breathe in appreciatively. Besides filling every last dead nerve in his body with agonized guilt, her scent brought him bittersweet pleasure. He had missed this. 

With all his remorse, at times he forgot how much he missed her. 

His eyes traveled to Red, not masking his touched surprise. "She never hoaxed the house? Never took my name off the guest list?" 

"Never." 

A growl lodged in his throat, coming out with smaller force than he intended. It sounded like a plea. However, he read her answer before he could croak the redundant question, resigning grudgingly to rugged acceptance. "I'll never understand, will I?" 

"Who can say?" Willow sighed. "Listen, I don't wanna get your hopes up. Buffy missed you—right. But she's Buffy. She may never admit it. She may say she hates you long after she's in the ground." A slight pause. "Permanently, that is. But she doesn't. I know. She's my best friend—she couldn't hide anything from me if she wanted to. I just wanted to show you this. The invitation thingy and something upstairs. Just so you know that she...she feels for you, Spike. You're going to get it rough. Xan and Angel looked ready to kill when Dawnie told us that you were back. So... yeah... things for you are going to get pissy. Especially with the soul and all... that's a bummer. But at least know that she..." 

"Don't." God, after so many years, one would think he was beyond crying over it. "Don't say she...cause she doesn't. We both know it." 

"Yeah. But there is something." 

"I get that." 

Willow nodded to the stairs. "Seriously, I gotta show you this. Buffy has this book. Well, I got it for her... but... ah, you're just gonna have to see it. It's mega weird!" 

He grinned. "Ah... creepy old book? Someone's singing my song." 

"Not so much old as... not even really creepy. Just weird. And it proves my point." She was in Buffy's room before she realized he had stopped again at the doorway, familiar pangs shooting behind his eyes. "You know...once you're in the house, I don't think they can disinvite you from specific rooms." 

"Oh, they can, luv," William replied. The jest was out of his voice. "Garlic and all that." 

"There isn't any—" 

"I know. I can't go in there. It's..." 

"Big baby, good god!" Willow turned and outstretched her hand to him. "I know you're not Spike anymore. Don't make me wish you were. But golly, I never thought I'd see the day when you're timid to look into rooms because of something someone who wasn't technically you did." She frowned at her logic, then straightened, convinced of her argument. "Come in here before I have to go resort to—" 

There was danger shooting behind her gaze, and he took the warning well. Without further ado, he stepped inside, flinching as Buffy's scent intensified. It was so thorough, so completely her that he nearly curled up. He wanted to lose himself. "What is it?" he choked, stepping forward. "Whaddya want me to see?" 

"This." Red held up a thick navy book, one he had seen a thousand times. His mouth went dry and something seized hold of his insides, wrenching them into a tight knot. "Xander and I took Buffy to the mall for her birthday. After so many years, we finally took _your_ advice and decided not to celebrate, you know? Avoid the calamity? Anyway, we hit the usual places before remembering Dawn needed some book for her class. We were there for like... a half hour. Lost Buffy in the poetry section, if you can believe it. I found her looking at this." She handed it to him. "She wasn't crying or anything...just looking at it in an all funny, I-wish-things-were-different kinda way." 

William was at a loss for words as he stood there, cradling the book of poetry he had spent hours pouring himself in to, the very one Giles had published without his knowledge. Every verse in there was an inspiration of his past dealings, all involving her in one variation or another. He traced the place his name was embroidered in gold lettering, voice hoarse as he held back another outburst of emotional release. "She likes it?" he whispered. 

"Likes it? Hell, I can't get her to read anything else." Willow beamed proudly, flipping the front cover open. "See? The pages are all worn and stuff. We'll have to get her another one before long. She was short on cash and decided that's what she wanted for her birthday. Even made me take back the pumps I'd gotten her at Payless so I'd have enough money." 

Buffy returned shoes for a book? This was serious. 

William smiled sadly, a genuine smile, releasing a quivering breath. Eyes shining, he turned to her, a look of odd complacency overcoming his features. "They're all about her, you know," he muttered. "Every single one. In one way or another. Granted, some are about endless guilt an' self-punishment, but even then, she has a say." The look on Willow's face had dropped from victorious to stunned. He didn't notice. "I don't think I've ever written anything but her." 

"Wait... wait a sec." The volume was snatched from his grasp quickly, tossed to the bed and forgotten. Her gaze commanded him. "You...you _wrote_ that?" 

"Bloody right I did. You think there's another ponce calling himself 'William the Bloody' waltzing around London?" His eyes narrowed at her skeptically. "Wait a tick... you thought I _didn't?_ Why'd she want it if you thought I hadn't-" 

"Well, Spike...yah gotta admit. When someone thinks of you, they don't automatically make a poetry connection." The look on her face was torn between surprise and adoration. "I got it for her because of the name. She wanted it because of the name. We never thought it was you...just a really, _really_ freaky coincidence." Excitement surged behind her eyes. "I had no idea you wrote poetry! It's gorgeous, Spike. I've read it all. Absolutely—" 

"Slow down, luv," he said softly, smiling with tight ego-stroked satisfaction. "I'll admit...my old self isn't the type to sit down and pour his bleeding heart onto paper. If my heart was bleeding, I'd usually go take it out on some poor unsuspecting. Rip out another bleedin' heart to feel better. Stupid git. Before I was changed, though... poetry was sort of my thing. I was never really good at it. 'S how they started callin' me 'William the Bloody.' Bloody awful poetry an' all that. I started writin' again after I got the job. Ripper found all my work, that nosy wanker, and took it upon 'imself to get it published." The smirk on his face melted away without provocation, replaced with familiar glinting behind eyes that had cried far too much for one or a thousand lifetimes. "An' she likes it? Really likes it?" 

Willow smiled and stepped forward. "She loves it. I...I can't believe I never made the association." 

"I can't either. It does seem kinda obvious," the vampire teased. "But I can make sense of it. Bloody hell, pet, I never thought it'd come this far. Any of it. Ripper had me workin' in a sodding library...an' I liked it! Couldn't get enough of it. Hell, I even miss those old ponces that hired me." 

"You... were working... in a library?" The irony was too much, and when he nodded in confirmation, she burst out laughing. "Oh God! Xander wasn't kidding when he said that the mysterious 'Fitzwilliam' must be a carbon copy of Giles." 

"That wanker called me what?!" Abandoned grief gave way to innocent tease. "You know, pet, I really oughta go. She'll be back eventually, and I don't want 'er angry with you for bringin' me 'ere. Until I've..." He swallowed audibly, "talked with Buffy, you shouldn't be around me." 

Willow grinned. "Yah big dope. Who do you think asked me to find you, huh? She wasn't having much success trying to warn off Xander or Angel from going out and causing some major damage. Shoulda seen her. She got real mouthy with them." 

"What'd she do?" 

"Told them that if either of them touched you, they'd have to answer to her." Her grin broadened at the shock in his face. "See? She wants to keep you protected... says she's coming to see you tomorrow." 

William's eyes widened, constricting with a sudden diversion between fear and anticipation. Tomorrow? That was so soon. Not that he had been expecting a long period of preparation, but... oh god, the walls were closing in. "Are you sure it's not to stake me good and proper herself?" he asked weakly, dizzy for a minute. 

"Oh no." Red shook her head ardently and sighed. "You didn't see her. She burst into tears when Dawnie told her you were back." The vampire flinched. "No, no, no. Good tears. Really. Oh, and when Xander tried to comfort her by saying he'd go out and kill you, she and Giles both screamed out: 'NO'! It was awesome." There was a thoughtful pause before she took his arm, prying him toward the door. "Come on. We're going to the Bronze. You need to see her." 

Predictably, the words succeeded in turning William's feet into granite. He wrenched his arm free and pushed her away, shaking his head with insistent fervor. "No. Too soon." 

"Not to _talk_ to her, dummy. Just to see her." At his dubious expression, she rolled her eyes. "You have to get passed this, Spike. If you're here to help us, eventually you'll have to see her. No matter what Giles says. Fact is, she's going to come looking for you. She _wants_ to see _you_. Doesn't that mean anything?" 

"Yeah. That either she's off her rocker, or she really wants to stake me." William snarled and turned away. "I can't do this." 

"Yes. You. Can. You have to." When he didn't face her, Willow emitted an exasperated breath, grasping his arm and forcing him to look at her. "Hey—all right. I'll admit it. You messed up. You totally messed up. You did something really bad. Here's the kicker: so what? No one's perfect. Everyone messes up. Everyone deserves a second chance. You're a vampire, in case you haven't noticed. Vampires are all about the mayhem and carnage, so when you mess up, it's expected to be BIG. Demons are evil and whatnot, but you were _good_ to us. I mean, not at first, no, but later. Buffy asked you specifically to watch after Dawn. AND after I..." She sighed again and looked away, ashamed. "After I went all crazy, she told Xander that Dawn'd be safe with you. That was after you'd left town, though. She had to stay with Clem." 

"Buffy took Dawn to me?" His voice was nearly inaudible. 

"Yeah. So there. Point proven. Listen, part of this human gig is screwing up royally. I mean, look at me. I was so... out there... my humanity was driven from me. I tried to end the world. I kicked the crap out of Giles for _fun_. I did... horrible... _horrible_... things." The look in her eyes drifted and was replaced with an onslaught of tears. Without hesitating, William came forward and took her into his embrace, comforting, as though it were second nature. Chaste hugs were new to him. Drusilla had never been much for cuddling, Harmony—well, he had only kept her around for sex, and Buffy had rarely stayed after their moments of intimacy, fleeing after kicking him in the head only to return hours later ready for more. Outside was the first true moment of real neediness, and Willow, dear sweet Red, had comforted him in the most elementary way. He hadn't been lying when he noted he wished he could have been here for her when she came back those years ago. She needed someone then, someone who had seen both sides of the world and come back, stronger built. Someone in need of as much forgiveness as she was. 

"But..." she said when she found her voice. "They forgave me, you see. I tried to kill them and they forgave me. I can't imagine what I put them through... when I do, it feels all... confined inside, and I don't want to think about it. You..." She pulled away, smiling lightly. "You're the same, Spike. Sure, you messed up, but she'll forgive you. She might never say it, but she will. Maybe she already has. It'll hurt like hell... her forgiving you, because you won't forgive yourself. I know I haven't... forgiven myself. But time heals things. For that, you're going to have to get over this thing and be strong. I know you're strong—I've seen it." 

William's mouth tugged in a subtle grin. "It already hurts like hell, luv. You oughtn't worry about my strength. I've got plenty. Past couple years 'ave taught me that it's'all right to shed a tear or two here or there, s'long as you got the stones where it counts" 

"Yeah." She pulled back completely, heaving another breath, final. "I'm so glad you're here." 

"'S'good you are," he retorted. "I just hope you're not the only one." 

"That's why we're going to the Bronze. You need to see her." At his hesitation, Willow bit her lip and considered. "I bet she's still in your duster, if that helps. Rarely takes that old thing off." 

"What about Peaches? He'll be there, won't he?" 

"Angel? More than likely. Don't worry, though. She hasn't been exactly friendly to him since he came back." Willow snickered. "I think the magic's finally gone. He has a kid, did you know? Had one with Darla, of all...vamps." 

William quirked a brow and chuckled softly, finding no humor behind it. "It's a bloody weird world we live in, pet. Peaches is out there doing the wacky without even losin' his soul. Buffy doesn't hate me when she should...and me, blubbering every step I take like a sodding fool." 

Red chuckled, pretended to consider, then nodded. "Yup." With conviction, she grabbed his arm again, pulling him down the stairs. "Now we're going to the Bronze. No fussy objections. I won't take 'no' for an answer. There we go. Forward march." 

He laughed—a good, honest laugh, but didn't fight her. "You drive a hard bargain, Red. You know that?" 

"Part of my charm." 

At the bottom of the steps, he turned back to face her. Another unlikely friend with even further unlikely insight. His insides shivered at the thought of what was to come, but she was right. It was time enough. To say her words had charged him with hope was a falsity, but they did shed new light. Comforting in a strange, almost painful way. Buffy didn't hate him. She had missed him. She owned his book. She had _read_ his book. She liked his book. If everyone else in the world decided it was garbage and wanted to burn every copy, he wouldn't care. The three people whose opinion he did esteem had already passed their good favor. Giles, Buffy, and Willow—all here. Willow behind him, locking the door as they stepped into the night once more. Willow, offering him this incredible chance, an opportunity more vivid than the Watcher could have ever provided. Willow, who should not be here with him, but was. 

Willow. His darling Red. She was healing. Three years was short compensation for the pain she had experienced, not only for the world, but also for losing the person she loved. They had both progressed in their respective states—not much but enough. Her words were true. Time did heal things. It had healed Giles and Buffy, preserved Willow's good opinion even as she suffered her own misgivings, and had brought him here. Sunnydale. Time would continue and would eventually soothe all its past indiscretions. It was just a matter of waiting. 

William stopped suddenly in stride. "You won't tell her, will you?" 

There was no need for elaboration. "About your soul? No. I figured it was something you wanted to keep secret as long as possible. Giles woulda told us if it weren't. Besides, it's your place to tell her—not mine." 

"Guess I should be worried 'bout being found out before I can manage to tell 'er myself. You seemed to know right off the bat." 

Red grinned. "I could feel you a mile away. Didn't know it was your soul until I saw you, but I felt it. Witch's powers, and all that. I'm just good." 

"You are." He returned the smile as they resumed walking. "I never got to tell you...I'm so sorry about Tara." 

He expected her to stop walking again, or to hitch in breathing, or do something to display her grief. Instead, her hand shot out and seized his, squeezing in assurance even as her face fell impassive. "I know," she whispered. The night shone on them, encompassing with surviving comfort. They continued side-by-side, the weary path to the Bronze. 

No more words were exchanged. There was no need. 


	10. The Bronze

**Chapter Nine**

The Bronze. 

In so many years, the scene before him had not changed; never truly changed. With as often as it was fumigated, renovated, and remodeled, the atmosphere inevitably stayed the same. The crowd had aged and added younger faces, but they danced to the same music, laughed loudly at the same bad jokes, endured the same come-ons and put-downs as every generation before them. The place had seen more action than likely any one location in Sunnydale, and rightfully so. Where else would a demon find such a lively crowd of unsuspecting victims?

One would assume the populace would wise up as the years passed.

They were standing side-by-side on the balcony, eyes mirroring each other's as if they had been born to stand and observe. The long ends of the upper level were occupied by necking lovers, as was the norm. A respective crowd danced to the music of the visiting band, vivacious and full of life. 

William snickered. A room full of happy meals with legs, and he felt not the slightest desire to nab himself a midnight snack. That might have been the chip, but he didn't think so. Even after so many years, it was bizarre not to _crave _human from a live source. He bought it, sure, and drank without hindrance. But not to crave destruction; that was something that would take years to overcome.

"Lead singer's cute," he said, indicating the visiting band with a nod. "Looks a bit like you. Who are they?"

"The Annoying Pedestrians," Willow replied, her face reddening at the slightest suggestion of a compliment. "They play here a lot. Really popular."

The corners of his mouth tugged in a bittersweet smile, registering her self-consciousness before turning back to the crowd. It was hard to estimate how many things had happened here. Buffy dancing before Sweet, almost burning to a cinder until he rescued her. Outside they had shared a passionate kiss—the first of their destructive rapport. The occurrence in itself had been so singular up to that point. He recalled his thoughts with painful articulation. It was the first kiss out of desire: not a spell gone wonky conjured up by Red, not gratitude for saving her sister. No—because she had wanted him, truly wanted him. Strong and without repression. 

William shuddered. Ripper was right, of course. The relationship had damaged them both; leaving him with scars even an eternity could not heal.

A hand grasped his arm and pulled him to the present. He glanced to Willow, her eyes alight, pointing excitedly to a table in the foyer. "There!" she cried gleefully. "I was right!" 

His gaze followed her direction, and his entire body went numb. For the first time in three years, he saw her. The music slowed, blossoming discussion subsiding to long withering drones, even the people making their way across the dance floor alternated to a sluggish pace. And it was just her. Sitting there in all her flawed perfection. Sitting there. Glowing. She looked so…good. Words filled his throat, racing mind composing a hundred verses of poetry that would never know paper. She was lovely: so much stronger than he remembered her. William forced himself to release a breath, and smiled. Good—she needed to be strong. That year had been their worst. Buffy, but not Buffy: the girl—woman—he loved no matter.

However, on further inspection, he noticed a burden set beneath her eyes. Nothing of heavy consequence, but he could tell her thoughts were of him. Considering. Conspiring. His duster complimented her in a way he could not have appreciated before. It was there; it was all there. His Buffy—not plagued by the past. At peace. 

_Not yours, _an inner voice forewarned. _She was never yours._

William frowned, flushed and exhausted, needing air like never before. "Oh Red," he murmured, surprised when she heard him.

"What?"

"She's…she's just…" Adoration filled him whole, for the first time swallowing the stronger side of him that ached with reminders of constant sorrow. "Cor, she's so beautiful." 

No sooner had the words left his lips did the scene change. William watched, fascinated, as her face dropped, heavy with distaste, eying the tall, darker form coming into view. It took all of him to hold back a snicker. Angel was like all other demons, though he would be the last to admit it. As always, his eyes were full and brooding, body language precise and movements diminutive. He had before been called an enigma—a person thoroughly impossible to read. The storm behind his gaze was an aggressive one; battling centuries' worth torment, the massive wrongdoings by a hand that mimicked his, and yet was not. However, the grand-sire was not so ambiguous to his childe. Without needing to inquire for confirmation, or even place other possibilities on the table, he knew that their past conversation had concerned him, and that Angel's words were less than encouraging. It didn't surprise him; didn't anger him; didn't concern him, really, in any fashion. It was Angel, and such behavior was expected. Such bias judgment on things he claimed to understand. Things he wished he understood.

_Like how I could be good when he's such a bloody prat when he's bad, _William reflected bitterly, pausing, and shrugging in concession. _'Course, I'm no Mother Theresa myself, but by gum, I did try. Isn't trying worth anything anymore?_

Conversation did not resume immediately. Angel slid Buffy a drink that she tapped her fingernails against but didn't sample. Another grin threatened to tackle his lips, the words _that's my girl _forming effortlessly. He flinched and bid himself back a step.

_Not yours. Not anyone's. But really, **really **not yours._

Ah, they were talking now. William squinted and peered closer. One did not have to be within earshot to catalog her aversion. Buffy's features were always animate when she talked, whatever the conversation might entail. If she were discussing horned snails with a professor, then by golly, it would be the most fascinating venue of her day. The same with her anger and frustration; he had seen enough of that to spot it coming weeks in advance. Her eyes were screaming as her body rolled in momentary repugnance, Angel too enthralled with his own fuming disapproval to really take notice. However, it was not so much an argument as a heated discussion. Their voices never raised, and neither truly lost their patience. William watched her mouth form his name more than once. 

Drawing back, he sighed and nudged at Willow. "They're fighting about me." It wasn't a question—rather an astute observation. 

"I'd say that's a good guess," she agreed. "Angel was so thrown when Dawn came in and told everyone you were back. Things have been kinda awkward since he came back to town, anyway. Adding you to the mix took the cake."

"Awkward? Why awkward?"

Willow shrugged. "Buffy just doesn't see him the way she used to. It's creepy. They're not even really friends. Or talking buddies. Or any kind of buddy. I know it's been years, but I'm so used to seeing them all over each other." She turned red when he shot a pained look her way, ducking away from his scrutiny and mumbling, "Hard to get used to something else when he leaves town, yah know."

When William withdrew his gaze and looked back to the unfolding scene, Angel had pulled away from the mix, returning to the bar. It didn't appear he would be joining her anytime soon, and judging by the expression coloring her face, there was nothing she would like better. She reached to take a drink before remembering who brought it to her and pushing herself away from the table in disgust. The vampire grinned tightly to himself, not out of pride as much as the pleasure of watching her rawest emotions unfold. There was something about her at the brink of utter frustration that was unreservedly exquisite. 

Buffy had only taken a few steps away when she stopped suddenly—awkwardly, a frown creasing her brow. It was a moment of instant recognition. He knew that look all too well. A slayer at her best always sensed a vampire nearby, and he knew she had finely tuned the tinglies to pinpoint specific demons. If he stayed much longer, he would be cornered. Something told him whatever rift had settled between Buffy and Peaches was capable of being placed on hold if a more trying matter arose. Though even as his better senses commanded him to leave, he watched her beats longer, willing her to see him, wanting despite the dryness of his throat. Never had he thought the night would bring together such a forage of conflicting emotions. Now that he was this close, he understood it would be impossible not to stray himself further, even if she wished it so.

Chances were he would never see her again.

With pained restraint, he pulled back. "She knows I'm here, luv." Willow looked at him strangely without voicing her confusion. "Slayer thing—strongest around vamps she knows. I better get my ass out of 'ere. Things could get hairy, specially with Peaches lurkin' about." 

"Yeah," she agreed. "You did what I wanted, anyway. You saw her. Feel better?"

He grinned tightly. "Lots, actually. Never thought it possible, but I do. Thanks for draggin' me along, pet." With that, he withdrew from the edge of the balcony, missing the slayer's eyes as she completed her stationary scan. That wasn't all. If she didn't find a target by looking, the hunt would infinitely resume on foot. "For the best. Not sure how loopy things are going to get 'round 'ere once we 'ave our heart-to-heart. It'll go one way or the other. There is no in between with me and Buffy." His gaze caught hers and she offered a small smile but no reply. "Promised Ripper I'd check in to be sure I'm still all not-staked and dusty."

"All right." Without warning, Red grabbed him and pulled him in for the third tight embrace of the evening. "Hugging good," she whispered. "Thanks for coming." 

Hugging also becoming an odd second nature. It didn't bother him; he squeezed his arms around her. Hugging relaxing. Hugging reassuring. "Not a problem, luv. Can't ever resist a girl in red." He tugged playfully at her hair, a somewhat humorless chuckle rumbling through his body.

"No, I mean coming back." She smiled against his shoulder, constricting her grasp on him in the unspoken need for further comfort. What was it that was so…nice about this? It occurred to him that with all the help he could have given her when she came back from London, tired and filled with remorse, she could have helped him just as easily. Whatever had to be done was always simpler when you weren't alone, and with as surprisingly supportive as Giles had been in the heart of all this drama, there wasn't anything like going through something _with_ someone. "You're late, but at least you're here. Don't run off like that again."

William's lips tugged in a sad smile. "Can't promise you that," he said. "Going back to the old country an' all, once the wackiness is over. But I'll let you know how to reach me. It's tough, Red. I know. I understand that."

With a sniffle, she pulled away, heaving a breath of dry release. "Yeah," she agreed. "You're the only one who does."

*~*~*

Five minutes between upstairs and the ground floor. Buffy saw her immediately and grinned. A genuine grin. Willow was happy to see those. Their conversations of the recent didn't initiate too many genuine grins. It was difficult being the best friend who knew everything but couldn't say a word, or even pretend like she knew what was going on behind the scenes. A sigh heaved through her body. If she wasn't consoling one bleeding soul, it would be another.

The Slayer's features were still wrought with colorful dissatisfaction. By the relaxing of her shoulders, Willow could tell the tinglies had passed. Spike was wisely far and away, delaying the inevitable as long as he could. It was understandable. With all that had passed, following three years' silence would be difficult. 

How much easier things would have been if he had simply come back.

Without passing a greeting, Buffy stormed over to her, eyes dark and cloudy. "Big prick," she growled, nodding to the place Angel sat watching her. "God. Will he ever understand that when he leaves someone's life, he loses all right to a say in what happens in it?"

"He's protective, Buf. Always is." Willow's eyes followed her direction but didn't linger long. Her thoughts of Angel were unchanged in the years they had known each other. No more juicy 'what-happened's itched her curiosity. The conversations between the two formers were now a matter of delicate privacy, often eliciting some sort of wan, unsettled frustration. A sense of caring but being so aggravated that they cared that it was better to pretend the other didn't exist. "Did you tell him? About Spike?"

Buffy scowled and rolled her eyes. _"Tell _is such a strong word. Forced into talking was more like it. When, exactly, did my personal life become a world-class show and tell? Especially in the _past _sense? God. I said some things I probably shouldn't have, but garrr…he makes things so difficult!" Willow nodded sympathetically. "He wouldn't even try to understand."

"Well…he does know Spike better than anyone," she replied slowly. When she was challenged with fully perked eyebrows, her voice dropped. "Or thinks he does." Silence threatened them. Odd that silence could ever be an issue when they were surrounded by so much noise. 

Needling voices pinpricked the back of her neck, pressuring her into confession.

That was all it took. Suddenly, she couldn't hold back. "He's here, Buffy." The words required little time to settle. Willow's eyes widened at the hope that flickered behind her friend's gaze. "Or he was. When he saw that you could feel him here, he left."

"You found him?"

The Witch grinned self-consciously. "It wasn't too hard. He was outside your house—not evil or anything, not even thinking about going in. I think he wanted to see you. Not talk, just see you. Physically. Make sure you were all right and all."

There was a nod of empty understanding, contrasting the variety of conflict sprouting behind Buffy's eyes, so intensely vibrant that Willow nearly flinched. She hadn't been lying when she told Spike she could feel him a mile away. She had—she felt him still—she just hadn't realized it was him until seeing his eyes. Standing beside her friend now, it was nearly impossible to decode whose soul was screaming the most. 

"You talked to him?" Buffy whispered. It was impossible to hear her above the music. With a nod, Willow seized her arm and pulled her into a corner. Not too much of an improvement, but some.

"A lot," she replied at last. "He just left. We spent most of the evening together."

"How…how was he?"

A breath caught in her throat before the truth could escape. Which side did she tell? The part where the distressed vampire had clung to her the in the midst of his grief? How he begged her not to make him go inside? How she had discovered the poetry book was indeed verses composed at his hand? How she had shared her own grief and been comforted in the arms of the one man she shouldn't trust? How now her feelings on the matter were almost as confounding as the star-crossed lovers that she was, too, wobbly on the ground she stood on?

There was one thing she couldn't do: lie. Spike hadn't been just fine; though she happily admitted that his mood had improved drastically as the night ensued. Smiling slightly, Willow drew in a breath, piecing together words out of thin air. "He was…different. Really different. So different, I—" _No souly, remember? That's his job._

"Like Giles said?"

"Oh Buffy, you wouldn't believe it." Her voice dropped. "I took him into the house."

"You _what?!"_

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please." Willow took hold of the lapels of Spike's old duster and gave a good demonstrative tug. "You can't fool me, Missy. And…it wasn't like he wanted to. I kinda forced him."

Buffy blinked, pulling away and absently caressing the leather, as though she had nearly ruined the face. "You forced him?"

"Just a little. He was so…I'd never seen him like that." _By golly, I coulda sworn he was sporting a new fancy SOUL. Geez, Buffy. And all this time, I thought **I **was dense. _"The things he said. You know—normal Spike things only different. Like—" _Like a souly guy with a soul. _"Like…it was eating him up. I had to take him inside to show him you didn't hate him enough to revoke his invitation." Her voice dropped. "I also showed him your poetry book."

"Will!" The Slayer's tone was coated the venom. "I don't want him getting the wrong idea. You know how Spike can be. I mean, sure, I've missed him. Big whup. Too much has happened for me to just—"

"What exactly is the wrong idea?" the Witch retorted. "That every time he's mentioned, you go off into BuffyLand and don't bother sending a postcard? That every time you smell cigarette smoke, you get a look in your eyes that's all 'Oooh…I wonder if that's him!' followed by immediate disappointment when you understand he's not coming back? Or, or—how about the time you nearly flipped when you left that ratty old duster at Xander's and thought he'd recognize it and burn it if I didn't keep it safe for you until you could get it back. That every time you read his poetry book, you hafta leave the room before you burst into tears? Or are you still telling yourself that you don't give a rip because he's too evil for words and you're too Buffy-esque to stop and smell the cigarettes, because honestly, I'm a little fuzzy on your definition of 'the wrong idea.' Seems to me like what I did was feeding him the _right _idea of what's been going through your head these past years."

There was nothing for a long minute. When she did speak, her voice was small and disbelieving. "Wha…what do you mean…_his _poetry book? He—"

"What it sounds like. We're dummies, Buffy." Willow adorned her renowned resolved face, the one that never lied or took no for an answer. "Every word…he was so…he couldn't believe that you owned it. He said it was all about you."

Tears clouded the Slayer's vision and she choked back a sob, turning away quickly. Willow allowed her a few seconds before sighing and conceding to comfort. Everyone was getting their share of the huggies tonight. 

"God!" Buffy finally cried. "What am I supposed to do? Things are so…messed up. I was so…terrible to him. And…not…how am I supposed to look at him? With everything that happened… How can _he—"_

"No one said it was going to be easy," Willow retorted. "In fact, he said himself that chances are, things are going to get pretty crappy. I don't think he's expecting anything. Hell, I know he's not. You would, too, had you seen him. But there's nothing wrong with forgiving him. You'll both feel better if you do."

"That's just it." Buffy's voice was barely above a whisper. "I have. I forgave him a long time ago. Well, maybe not a long time ago. It took a while. I had to grow up, Will. I had to realize what I was doing was wrong, and that if you provoke a demon the wrong way, he'll go all demony. That much was my fault. I give. But the rest...things are complicated beyond that. Forgiveness isn't the answer here. Forgiveness doesn't equal trust. It's just an act. It doesn't change anything." She sniffed audibly. "But I've missed him so much! How is that? He's _evil, _Will. Angel's right about that. No matter what happens or what changes, he's just…evil. He tries and I never admitted it, but, GOD! Why are things so messed up? I missed something evil, something that tried to hurt me…something I hurt… Something that caused more hurt than love." The words _but that was my fault _were written plainly across her face even if she never spoke them. "Between the hurt and the…hurt…I don't know what I missed."

Willow heaved a breath. "What do you want to say to him?"

"I'm sorry." She spoke so bluntly it startled them both. "But…as far as everything else…I don't know. He hurt me too! I'm so…"

"Settle with the apologies for now," she said simply. "I don't think he'll accept that he's forgiven, anyway. And after that…"

"After that, it becomes a matter of him forgiving me," Buffy concluded, eyes going distant. "But no smoochies."


	11. Confrontations

**Chapter Ten**

Things were so confusing right now it was difficult to breathe. Warring emotions fought for the inward pedestal, one never triumphing over the other. Images arose in support of conflicting debates, dying without offering a half-hearted provocation. The air was desperately thin—her lungs, it seemed, had not struggled this much since her first death, and even that seemed too far in the past to be reality.

She had never felt so lost.

Coming to terms with her feelings for Spike was comparable to taking every exam she had ever studied for in the entirety of her life in ten minutes with the expectation to pass, only not as simple. Their relationship had presented more than an array of complications. Unlike those in the past, there was no way to summarize her feelings in one word. Angel seemed best defined by _angst, _Riley with _over-reactive, _(did that count as one word or two?), but Spike stood in a category by himself where no humanly syllables could apply. 

Things would have been so much simpler had the cursed Initiative never put that chip in his head. He could have been dust years ago instead of a mooning vampire who followed her wherever she went. That, or, she could have been killed in turn. That was one of the exciting things about him. While she was an expert slayer, his own abilities were never outshone. They were each other's worst enemies. There was no one she enjoyed fighting more. Before him, no one else was worthy of killing her. If she were to be done in, by gum, she'd be done in by the best.

But no. Things don't work out the nice, smooth, easy way when one resided in Sunnydale. He had to get all chipped up. Chip's Ahoy, as she had often jested. Chipped up and progressing from an annoyance, to a colleague, to daresay a friend, and finally to a lover. Things were never pleasant between them, but there were the good times. The great times. Those two second-intervals she took to enjoy herself instead of focusing on the inward mantra of _thisiswrongthisiswrongthisiswrong!_

Stupid vampire had to go fall in love with her.

_No, not love, _she warned herself. It was far too dangerous to define anything a soulless demon could feel as love. She conjured the image of his fierceness, the way he had felt pushed against her that night. It worked to a degree - before her treacherous mind showed her the look of self-horror he had displayed before her biting though justified remark. _He was never really…in—_

That was what was commonly known as denial. Buffy heaved a sigh, slumping in stride as her hands found purchase in her pockets. Night cocooned, wrapping her in a protective embrace. What a night. What a long night.

Matters weren't made any simpler in knowing what feats awaited her tomorrow. A part of her welled with insatiable excitement—the end of a long three years. How often had she wished he would return—a hidden desire she kept in shame. Granted, it hadn't spawned immediately, rather growing in secret until it could no longer be tamed. And even then, Willow was the only one she could turn to. The only one who had ever looked at her and not judged with the hasty decisions made in her personal life. The only one to keep quiet if she found something objectionable, offering her opinion, of course, but never trying to actively interfere. She had been, she was, the only one to know of the hidden want for that nasty vampire.

Buffy had tried hate, but there was nothing to hate. Nothing but herself for such blind intolerance. Once upon a time, her hatred was justified. They were mortals enemies, to be sure. They had hated each other with the same drive that made them yearn, lust, and bleed. Then he had to be a prat and fall in love with her, and out of her outrage that the one demon she never wanted could love her so conversely than the one that had left her heartbroken, her hatred had doubled with frightening potency.

Then there was no hatred. As her feelings slipped from abhorrence to desire, her self-disgust established a violent persona. Maybe if she abused him often enough he would return to wanting her dead. To realizing his place and the absurdity of his claims. To not loving her with such steadfast dedication that he put mortal men to shame. That had backfired. His willingness to forgive and forget was overwhelming, so much more than hers. All for the impossible love of a woman who could never truly love him back.

Because, underneath all that, he was still a monster. 

And beneath her well-guarded layers of self-scrutiny and disgust resided a monster lover who wanted to make things right.

Her words cut more deeply than any blade. She had led him to that moment of desperation. Playing with the fire meant you got burnt. Maybe not the first, second, or thousand times, but eventually the flame would flare and scorn your skin. Growing comfortable around a killer, even a neutered killer, was never a good idea. And yet, while she was hurt, it was more directed at herself for such a lack of insight.

He had been wrong, of course. There was no doubting that. He had been so wrong it hurt to consider. What's worse was, in all her actions, she had never been above it. What was wrong to her was similarly wrong to him. Hurt. Kick. Punch. Over and over. The tedium of endless cycles.

Loving her did not rationally constitute being physically abused every time he was near simply because she could not cope with her misplaced feelings. Nor being used for love when she knew reciprocation of any kind was impossible.

She had broken it off. Tried to do the right thing. It wasn't a clean break—she hadn't been nice about it, but that was how it had occurred, and virtually where her fault ended. What they had could never be pretty, but it had been real.

That was one thing she had never credited him with. The capacity for genuine human emotion. Down to the gritty. Ugly. True. Real.

She could admit it, now. 

There had been heat. Passion. Need. Love? No. She always saw it in him, of course, but never offered kindness or concern in return. Even when he proved himself capable of authentic feeling. A year before their ill-fated coupling, he had saved her and her sister from Glory. Willingly. Even if she was not-so-pleasant. Even if the hell-god tortured him right into the earth.

That was real. It was all real, regardless of how fervently she wished to deny it.

It was real now, and to her grief, her ecstasy, her inward torment and utmost respite, he was back. The next few days promised hefty conversation: heart-breaking confessions, apologies, and conclusions. There wouldn't be kindness, just understanding.

Buffy stopped shortly outside Giles's motel room, her thoughts sharply perturbed by the thick emanation of a Cockney tenor. For the second time that evening, her heart stopped. Dull numbness tingled across her skin and she forced herself to draw in a heavy breath. He was there. Of course he was there. After all, he was in Sunnydale at the Watcher's request. It was only natural for him to visit.

Now, though? At this hour? What time was it, anyway? Buffy checked her watch, eyes darting quickly to the door, daring the fates to shove him through at that moment.

They didn't. When the better half of her motor abilities returned, she heaved a second breath, darting out of eyesight for the bushes while her eyes gazed fixatedly on the window visible beyond drawn curtains and two parked cars. There she stilled to perfection, close enough to hear. Close enough to gauge their conversation wasn't ending anytime soon.

He passed the window, and she saw him. She _saw _him! How little—or how much—he had changed. Instead of the confident sneer lacing his eyes and mouth, he was frowning, features taut with concern. Lips were in full motion, speaking intelligible words of prophecy, head buried in a book, of all things. His shoulders looked smaller without his duster. The duster she instinctively tightened around herself. She had seen him in much less, of course, but it looked different all the same. So different, and yet not. He was still Spike. Spike and not Spike. Spike never rubbed his chin in thoughtful speculation. Never spoke with understanding and patience. Never _researched._

This was the Spike that left her three years before? He was. He wasn't.

He was speaking.

"Bloody weird evenin', Ripper." That was definite Spike-speak. Different? A breath shuddered passed her lips. "Harder than I thought it would be."

"Mmmm…yes." Giles suddenly crossed the scene, head also studiously delved in ancient text. "Dawn related that she had run into you. Her tone was…less than civil."

Spike flinched and rubbed his jaw again, though more out of pain than guesswork. A shadow of a punch sparkled in his eyes, and _she saw it. _"Yeah. Nibblet let me 'ave it. Never thought I'd see the day. Good fer 'er. Even if it does hurt." He wasn't referring to the blow. "Little tike really grew up."

"If facing Dawn was that hard for you, then I fear the coming days will not improve."

"Oh no; Rips, it wasn't that." He looked so human, a sigh rolling off his shoulders as he took a seat beside the windows, back facing her. Though she was in no danger of being spotted, Buffy instinctively slinked further into the shadows. "That I was expectin'. Bit's all loyal to her sis. The way it should be. I just…"

"What is it?" Odd to hear authentic concern in the Watcher's tone when Spike was implicated.

"Red. It was Red." Emotion choked in his voice, and she had to bite back a sharp jolt of pain. "She…found me. Went to go see Buffy." A pause, probably following an incredulous look. "Not to _talk_ to her, mate. I'm not a bleedin' idiot. I…wanted to make sure she was all right. Mighty dark mojo about to start, after all." Another silence. "All right, you ponce. I wanted to see her. You knew it. I'm not fool enough to just walk up and say 'ello. Wouldn't, anyway. But stake me, I was just…pulled there."

"I hesitate to think how Buffy would have reacted if she'd seen you."

A third hefty pause. "Yeh, mate. Me, too. But she wasn't there. Red was. Tried to move away, but…" Hesitation. "She's…all right, innit she? No dark—"

"Perfectly."

"Thought so. Cor, she 'as a mean right hook." Buffy blinked. Willow had hit Spike? "Knocked me to the sodding ground twice."

Confused silence. "She seemed rather impassive at the Magic Box," Giles offered. "Buffy's reaction to your being back in town was not what I thought. Willow said little, but I didn't think—"

"Bugger, she wasn't vicious. After she hit me, she hugged me tighter than a bloody guitar string." A breath. Emphasized. "I never thought I'd feel rotten _for _leaving town. I've felt pretty rotten, Ripper. You've been there. Don't think I've felt it as badly as I did tonight."

"Why?"

"She's been hurtin'. I'm not talking little shards of guilt, neither. She knows what 'appened was beyond her control." A sigh. "Jus' like I know what 'appened 'ere was beyond mine. Doesn't take the burn away." 

At that, Buffy's eyes darkened, a cold shudder trembling down her spine. It wasn't like him to pass of guilt like that—not if he was truly remorseful. He lied endlessly to save his hide, sure. But there in the company of a man he trusted, she was deadened with fleeting betrayal. To accept her share of the blame was harsh, but to haul it all was blunt and ghastly unfair. Her defenses flustered.

Giles said not a word.

"Still smarts like hell. She cried on my shoulder, I cried on hers. She bloody well forced me into that house." He shifted, demeanor changing. "She hasn't locked me out, Rips. The Slayer, I mean. Walked right through without needin' to doubly check the welcome mat."

"That ought to be reassuring."

"Yeh. Oughta." He lurched his platinum head into waiting hands. "Won't, though. It gets harder with every sodding step. Red forgave me. Hardest thing…even harder than when you did."

"She forgave you because she's in need of forgiveness, herself," he said softly. "You've been there."

"Still am. Probably always be."

"No." Firm disagreement. Buffy knew that tone. "You'll always feel it, I know. Time has helped you progress this far." A sigh. Through the crack separating Spike from the curtain, she saw Giles roll his shoulders in ever-present concern. "You have an eternity to get over it. She only has this lifetime."

The platinum head dropped in acknowledgment, a hand coming up to caress his brow. "Don't I know it," he replied. "Poor Red. Too much for her to handle. If I can't bloody take it, I don't know how she can." He looked up then, catching Giles's eyes. "She's a fighter, Ripper. So much stronger than I am."

Buffy swallowed hard, eyes clouding with tears. The pure admiration in his voice touched every irritated nerve in her tired body. It was so honest, so true. For the life of her, she had never heard him so...

What had happened? Why was he back now? At Giles's discretion, perhaps, but something was undeniably different. And why did the Watcher trust him? What had concurred to initiate that sort of blind faith? Something was definitely different. Something had happened. There was no other explanation. The Spike she knew would never have waited this long. The Spike she knew would have either come around within days to express his remorse or never shown his face again. The Spike she knew didn't compliment people's strength unless he was trying to impress her with his nonexistent humanity.

"She has to be strong," Giles agreed. "This is all the time she has."

"Yeah." Spike drew in a sharp breath, picked up his discarded book and resumed flipping through it, though only half-hearted. "Not certain which one of us got the bad half of the deal. Live for bleedin' ever like this or eventually be put out of your misery...assuming the Slayer doesn't stab me with one of 'er pointy sticks before we blow this scene."

Buffy arched a brow in syncopation with her former Watcher. "You did not see her then?" he asked.

"I saw her." Her heart abruptly tore. "Saw her...Red dragged me to the Bronze. Saw her chattin' with Peaches." At last she saw his face. She didn't realize how much she needed to until his head turned in her direction. As he thought of her, his eyes turned upward, a wistfully sad smile on his lips. "She's beautiful, mate. A little...cor, I don't have words."

There was a chuckle. "You mean she silenced William the Blabbering Bloody? Impossible."

Spike shot Giles a wry glance. "Don't want to use the wrong words and go all the way back to 'bloody awful', do I?" The smile on his face brightened a bit. "She has it. My book, I mean. Red showed me."

"Not surprising," Giles retorted as though unimpressed. "It's excellent work, Will. Probably speaks to her. It speaks to a lot of people."

"You'd think. It's all bloody about her." Buffy's eyes widened, her mouth running dry. It was one thing to hear it from Willow, but straight from the horse's mouth was almost more than she could bear. Her feet commanded her to turn and run home but her will would hear none of it. Spike shook his head, aghast. "Still such a sodding shock."

_You have no idea, _she answered dryly. As their conversation resumed, she toyed with idle thoughts of intervening, none of which she would follow through. Unanswered questions plagued her stubborn mind, replying to all with a steadfast _I'm not ready. _Neither was he. All they could do was watch each other from a distance, reaching but never touching.

It was so frustrating to be willingly at arms length and still lacking the punch to go through with action.

_Tomorrow, _she promised herself. A likely empty promise. The morning, after all, was only hours away. Did she really believe one sleep would energize her for the conversation looming ahead? 

That arose a new foray of questions. What was she going to say? She promised Giles not to hurt him. Hah. Funny thought. It was Spike. She always ended up hurting Spike, even in those numbered instances where pain was not her motive. They hurt each other, over and over, eventually begging for a little more because it felt so good.

A surprisingly stern voice conflicting with the lighthearted conversation she had left drew her sharply back to the present. 

"Did you tell her?" The gravity in Spike's voice was disconcerting, and a shiver raced down her spine.

"No," Giles replied with a sigh, equally serious. He removed his glasses for an undoubtedly unnecessary polish session at the hem of his shirt. The body language was indisputable. He was nervous about something. Long ago, she had deciphered that code of unspoken thought, and apparently Spike was as talented in Watcher-speak as she was. The look on his face was frustrated but not angered. Another oddity. To see him frustrated without the drive to kill sparkling behind his eyes. "I couldn't. Not with everyone there."

It was amazing to hear disapproval in the vampire's voice—genuine disapproval. Other than obvious components, she had never thought of Spike as old. He lacked the maturity typically gained with age. However, the moment he spoke, she blinked as though first seeing him. A man with considerable experience and more knowledge than she would ever verbally credit. A creature who had seen and created history. For the briefest second, he looked old, older than Giles, older than her great-uncle who had passed the year before. Hidden streaks of wisdom blazed behind those passion-filled eyes.

_A different person..._

His words were unremarkable, but spoken with such vehemence it made her shiver in affect. "You lost your nerve? Good God, Ripper, you can't put it off forever."

"I know." There was no emotion behind Giles's tone. Just dead understanding. "But think of what she's dealing with. You're suddenly back in town, and for reasons beyond her, I'm taking your side. That alone will be hard enough to cope with until you share your own little secret. It's hard, I understand. Lord, I've been there through it all. A lot longer than it seems. You're my friend, and I have yet to say otherwise, but she's like my daughter. You just can't—"

"Slayer's got bigger bads to worry about than how to deal with me." The venom in his voice sent ripples across her skin. "Can't be dainty because of outstanding circumstances. Best to tell her and get it out there."

"I can't...not until we—"

Buffy jumped as the vampire roared, demon emerging with sudden fury. The Watcher was visibly shaken but not surprised, nor frightened at the implication. Even Spike had to reach and feel his face in shock of his reaction, but he made no attempt to draw it back in. "I won't stand for it, Rips. This is bloody bad business. All bad. I won't let things fester while she sits there and doesn't know what's about to hit just because you got a case of the jitteries." Gradually, his face relaxed and faded back to human. "Sod it, then. If you won't tell her, I will."

Giles's brows arched incredulously. "What?"

"You dragged me to this bloody parade because you wanted me to watch out for her. Seems that's your job, but I'm ready and willin' if it means protecting her while she's punchin' me into the sodding earth."

The gaze reflecting the Watcher's eyes was firm and disbelieving. Buffy herself was beyond astonished. Reacting so violently, so authentically to whatever evil was arising was one thing—it was familiar in a way, but she had never seen him like this.

"You really think waltzing over there right now is your best option?" Giles asked softly. "Think she'll listen?"

"Doesn't matter if she listens," Spike replied gruffly. The motel door opened. "You hafta tell her sometime. Least now she'll be on the lookout." Buffy gasped and backed further into the darkness, her tinglies going mad as he passed. The simplest thing she could do right now was emerge and demand answers, yet her body would not cooperate. Instead, she watched him leave. He performed an involuntary spaz as he crossed her, as though similarly sensing her proximity. Not wasting the opportunity, he paused and turned around. "I can deal with her dyin' again, Rips. It'll bloody tear me apart, but at least I'll know she's at peace. But you're a sodding quack if you think I'll stand 'ere and do _nothing_ to prevent it." 

The Watcher's shadow darkened in the doorway, glasses caught again in the hem of his sweater. "Then you're a braver man than I am," he murmured to where only she could hear. "And you have so much more to lose." His voice rose again, although Spike was out of earshot. "And don't call me Rips! One overused nickname is bad enough."

"Giles." Buffy's breathing had regulated as she stepped into the light cast by a street lamp. It was safe now, the coast was clear. A part of her was torn but she would not follow. She hoped he would be gone by the time she was home. 

The Watcher jumped in surprise, stumbling over himself as his eyes went as wide as saucers. "Bu..." A steadying breath as he tossed a panicked look down the path where Spike had disappeared. "Buffy, you just...ummm..."

"I know. Missed him." She followed his gaze fleetingly before drawing her eyes home. Giles's mouth thinned as he released a sigh and nodded. "I heard everything. And I think it's time we talked."

*~*~*

Every step weighed with less conviction as the space narrowed between him and Revello Drive. Fury at the Watcher's hesitance conflicted the ever-present sympathy. He understood he had no right to presume any part of Giles's role. Buffy was his responsibility even if no one admitted it. It had been years since she had an active watcher, needed one, but the bond developed between the two was impossible to break. This was his place. It had always been his place. And William had no right.

"Not supposed to interfere," he murmured with a flinch. "Badness comes from it. Can't make Ripper angry. Can't afford to lose his friendship."

For the second time that evening, William found himself standing outside her house. For the second time that evening, he received the chilling confirmation that she was not home. He could not feel her inside. Not like he had at the Bronze. Funny how that was—he could feel her now if he willed it so. It was a sixth sense. A special Buffy tingly. He had suspected it activated as he left Giles's, but credited it to his frustrated train of thoughts. _What if... _

His mind would not allow him access to that path. All he needed to know was that she was not home. The house buzzed with life, but not hers. Dawn was likely upstairs or in the living room. She was a responsible chit when she put her mind to it, and even so, things had changed.

Dawn. He ached at the thought of her. It was right, he knew, that she reacted as she had, despite how it stung. Forgiveness hurt more than spite. A pardon from Dawn might likely be the end of him.

Another shudder quaked through his body, and he wished Red were beside him.

No use lounging about here. He was willing to knock on the door but not wait for her to come home. She wouldn't listen if she thought he was stalking her.

"Call her then, Ripper," he growled as he turned, walking away with resignation. "Bloody well call her. Tell her what's going on."

Something rattled in his stomach and he found himself overwhelmed with familiarity. William froze in place, predator eyes shooting upward. No one was in sight, but he knew better than to trust elementary senses. Too much had happened in the past to suggest otherwise. Interior radar was shooting off the charts. He waited a beat for identification, relaxed, then tensed again. "I know you're there," he said finally. "No use lurking about."

"I could say the same to you." That voice! Once upon a time, he would have coiled with hatred so thick it would make the devil squirm, but the affect had abandoned itself to empty sorrow. "They might believe you, Spike, but I don't. They're mortals and they're quick to forgive, even quicker to forget, despite what's happened in the past." A pause. "I know what you are. How you gained Giles's trust, I'll never—"

"Oh, sod off, Peaches," William finally growled, glaring as Angel came into the light. The rage blazing behind his grand-sire's eyes did little to disturb him. They had hated each other far too long to start with retribution. As demons they were rivals, as men they were strung by jealousy. Now, as two souled vamps, little progress could be expected. However, he was family in that way both loathed to acknowledge. And oddly, the only family he think to begin to trust. "I came here to tell the lady what Ripper forgot to mention—that's all. No need to masquerade in your less-than-white armor. He called the cavalry for a reason. Do you really think I'd be 'ere otherwise?"

The flame died into barren nothingness, a black pit deepening enraged pupils. "Yes," he accused softly. "Because you're Spike, and against every rational fiber of your being, you never know when to quit. When enough is enough. Even if it means befriending the slayer's watcher to gain everyone's undeserved trust. Do you honestly conceive that you have any right to be here, after what you pulled?"

Pain shot through every numb limb, tingling across dead skin and tickling useless arteries to further useless sparks. "No," came the barking reply. "O'course not. Bloody hell, I told Ripper the same. Got on my sodding knees and begged the old git not to bring me along. But he told me something true—what she needs now is more important than that. 'S why I could understand him calling you 'ere. Because she needs you, too." William's voice was low and menacing, lips curled in an animalesque snarl. "But sod it all to bloody hell. If you hurt her, Peaches, I'll kill you."

"Hurt her?" Angel drawled. "More or less than _you _hurt her, Spike?  Where, in your consensus, do you draw the line of reasonability?"

That was it. All he could take. In an instant he was two seconds away from ripping the poofter's head off or sinking to his knees in tears. Somehow, however, he managed to restrain himself, instead biting back and swallowing strangled sobs by offering a gracious nod. He could not help the wealth of feeling that poured through his eyes. "Right then," he replied hoarsely. "I'll be on my way. Be a good chap and don't tell Buffy I came by.  Better off not knowing." Without awaiting a response, ignoring the blunt surprise with which he was regarded, William turned and began an unhurried walk toward the cemetery.

He heard Peaches following within seconds and made no attempt to quicken his pace. He knew he was found out. One by one they would all find out, either until he was dust or until there was no one left to surprise. When his arm was grasped, he was astonished at the lack of force—direct counterpoint to the fierceness of their brief exchange. Likewise, the fire had quenched behind Angel's eyes, replaced by reverent light. For a minute, all he could do was stare.

"What did you do?" he demanded a raspy beat later. "I...I can..."

"See it? Yeah. Figured you would if you got close enough," William retorted, voice low and plagued. "Never should have mocked you, Peaches. Never should have doubted your stability. Takes a mighty strong bloke to endure it." His eyes closed his tightly. "To take all this..."

"Pain?" The venom had disappeared from Angel's voice, instead laced with sympathy and understanding, though never quite releasing his patronizing superiority. It didn't surprise William as the others had. After all, the vampire had lived this. Was living it. He had seen both sides to evil and walked away.

There was a moment's pause. "The pain is unbearable," Peaches finally acknowledged. 

"Demon doesn't bother me," he retorted, and was rewarded with a curiously arched eyebrow. With a shrug, he conceded. "All right. Doesn't bother me _much. _Wasn't me, mate. Learned that by watchin' you brood all those years. It hurts like hell, but I gotta face facts. Angelus carried your face, but he wasn't Peaches." A sigh rolled off his shoulders. "Though it's there, all right. Sometimes it screams. Sometimes it screams louder than I can bear." 

"You learn to accept," Angel replied softly.

"Yeh." William snickered and backed away, voice climbing an octave and tainted with bitterness. "Now, answer me honestly—aren't you proud? After so many years makin' you squirm, I finally got mine." He huffed ineffectually. "Went out and got it myself, in fact. Got what I asked for. Got what she deserves." The other vampire's eyes went wide with comprehension, taken aback by a violent affirming nod. "That's right, ponce. Fought for it. Earned it. No curse. Not given to me as a punishment, though by God, it feels like it. Went out and fought for it. Defeated the baddies. And this is my sodding reward."

"You...asked for this?"

"Must have. Does it hurt, Peaches? I was a better demon than you. Knew who I loved and just what I needed to make her hurt go away. To make sure I never..." His eyes watered and he looked down. "Hurt her so much. Never...never meant to..." William drew an angry arm across his face and wiped the tears away. "Don't be offended, mate. You're a prat when you're bad, sure, but you're a better man than I am. You would never—"

"You didn't." Angel's tone was soft but assertive. Astonishment had not quite run its course. He was staring off, the sidewalk suddenly the epitome of fascination. "And everything I said tonight was wrong. Everything I told her..."

"Was right, if it was to stay away from me." He wasn't sure when they started walking, but somehow his legs were carrying him, every step a comfortable pace away from Revello drive. Almost as though they were old chums instead of two souled vampires who had spent the better part of the past century hating each other. "Still don't fully know why Ripper made me come. I get it, sure, but I'll likely cause more damage 'ere...just bein' around her."

For a minute, he thought he had heard Angel take a breath. No. The vampire rarely breathed. It had never been second nature with him. He rejected all association with humanism—steadfast in his unworthy demonhood. "He trusts you," he observed. William didn't have to look at him to verify an inward replay churning through the grand-sire's mind. He hadn't been there when redemption was granted, but he knew there had to be a point in time when Giles forgave him to his face for everything he did as Angelus. The Watcher had almost seen the worst part of that year. It hurt to think about now. He hated the thought of anything of that magnitude happening to his friend.  _"This _makes sense. Why didn't he tell us?"

"Didn't want him to. Wanted no one to know." A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "Too late for that. Red knew right away. So did you. Saw me, you did."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Angel replied. Their walk slowed as the graveyard came into view. "You ran into the two people most likely to notice you. I don't think Buffy will come to that conclusion consciously unless every other option is retired. She won't want to." He sighed and indicated their stop with a nod. "You're still staying here?"

"Feels wrong to be anywhere else." William shrugged simply and reached for his smokes. "'Sides, me in a bleedin' hotel room?  Dead giveaway.  Ol' Spike'd never stand for that." There was a long pause, the tenor of the conversation melting into further seriousness. "I don't expect you to like me, Peaches. Hell, I still can't bloody stand you." He shuffled uneasily as he lit the cigarette, drawing an exaggerated puff. "I've been a right stupid git through most of my life...undead, or whatever. But I won't hurt her. Didn't mean to in the first place." He tapped his chest. "Sodding demon an' all. Didn't know when...I didn't realize I was hurtin' her. Sick prat." There was nothing behind the other vampire's gaze. Emptiness could be construed in whichever fashion the beholder wished to see it. Understanding or further outrage. Whatever the case, it wasn't important enough to worry with now. "Right. Well, wanted you to know that. Don't know why. Don't expect you to believe me."

"It's hard." There was no elaboration, nor any alleviation on the deadness behind his gaze.

"Yeah. Fuckin' hard. It'll get worse, too." William blew out a long stream of smoke. "I don't need to ask you not to tell her. You know better, right?"

He blinked and nodded absently. "I won't. It's your place." A beat as he took a dramatic step forward, eyes flaring with intent. "But you should tell her. You owe her that."

"With the cat out of the bag all over the soddin' place, she'll eventually figure it." William sighed. "Red said she's comin' to find me tomorrow. She'll know, Peaches." They waited in unmoving silence until the cigarette butt was flicked to the ground and smothered under a large boot. "Still love her?"

Another silence. Shorter—speculative. "I'll always love her," Angel answered honestly. "But there are others. She doesn't love me." His brows perked. "Do _you _still love her?"

The words reassured him in the secreted implication of his demon-feelings. William smiled. Yes, Peaches knew. If he were standing here soulless, the admission would not come with near as much ease, but it was still tangible. There was no denying it. "I'll never love anyone else."

Angel smiled softly and nodded, turning wordlessly and leaving him standing alone. And that was it. Three encounters in one evening. Three different faces. A secret twice revealed. William sighed and turned inward. Had he always taken for granted how people could surprise him? He supposed so. For all the indiscretions committed in the past, he had been forgiven time and time again. Remained unstaked. It hurt now. It would likely hurt forever, but he was coping. 

And Angel. Most astonishing though correspondingly oddly expected. Their conversation soothed him with reassurance. The road ahead was long but not unknown.  Others had traveled its course before him, and come out on top. With all his time with Giles, he had never fully grasped that he was no longer alone. 

He understood that now.

_Never know how I'll thank the bloody poof, _he reflected as he was devoured in shadows. _Still hate him, though._


	12. Dreams

**Chapter Eleven**

_She kicked him to the wall—fiercely, bluntly.  Her insides were screaming with wretched betrayal, her inner will struggling at the reflection of self-recognition cradling his horrified features.  Instant remorse.  Recognition.  The worst sort of recognition.  No, no…she couldn't look at his face.  Her body was trembling now, trembling with hurt, hand clutching her robe to her chest.  She knew her eyes were cold—dead, as cold she as had felt since returning._

_She opened her mouth to speak, to send those harsh words into the void.  To satisfy any lingering thought that redemption lived in this house.  However, her voice never came.  Dry hisses scratched at her throat, but looking at those eyes, she couldn't find it within herself to speak.  The situation presented itself beyond words.  She was simply hurt.  Hurt that he would ever take it this far.  Hurt that after all that had passed, he had it in him to do something so…_

_Words fueled her once again, face flushing angrily with reason.  But she never got the chance to speak.  Spike was torn from the wall in a whirl of sudden force, face pounded into the bathroom tile without ceremony.  Again and again, he was thrashed about.  The attacker was shrouded in shadows, but she thought she could see…she thought she could see…_

_It was him.  Spike.  Spike attacking himself.  Spike, growling with such outraged possession it sent small ripples of cold across her skin.  Spike coming to rescue her from himself.  She watched dumbly as he hit himself—his victim sitting there in the stillness of remorse, accepting each blow, eyes dull with self-loathing and regret.  _

_She had the vague conception that even as he sent himself down this path of self-abuse, her words would still hurt him more than he ever could.  And yet, her lips remained sealed and she watched.     _

_With every punch Spike gave the personification of himself, he screamed with fury, "I won't let you hurt her, you bloody ponce!  I won't let you hurt her again!  You're nothing!  Evil!  You monster!  You disgusting evil wanker!  Die and leave her alone!" _

_The scene began to change.  When she blinked, she found herself standing in the mansion.  The old mansion.   A mirrored fight ensued in the middle of the room, before Acathla could awake.  Angel was nowhere in sight.  No, she was wielding the sword, all right, but a different vampire was staged at the opposing end.  The fight was a mimic of actuality.  For so long, her dreams had ventured here—for other reasons, of course, but she couldn't ignore the sense of déjà vu.  If someone had told her this had happened differently, she would not believe it.  All she knew was a very evil and guiltless vampire was her nemesis, and she had to kill him.  Kill him before he killed her._

_Or worse._

_At last, she got the better of him.  Spike was strong, of course, and her triumph was likely more accredited to chance than talent.  With sinking defeat, he fell to his knees.  Buffy drew the sword back, inwardly insisting that she was justified and that things would return to normal if she could just finish it.  Finish it now._

_A last act of love. Shoulders relaxing in acceptance of defeat, Spike looked up to her, eyes filled with warmth, love, and regret.  So much regret.  She heaved a sigh as her vision clouded with tears.   _

_"Make me what I was."  The words left him with assurance and faith, believing she had all the power in the world._

_Forgiveness?  Was that what he sought?  Buffy excreted a breath and lowered her sword.  A moment's hesitation before she helped him to his feet.  And there they stood, looking at each other with anger and remorse, love and confusion, hatred and penance.  If life was a roller coaster, she had permanent seating at the very front.  The embodiment of everything she hated and everything she was, standing there…waiting for her to kill him.  Waiting, just waiting…_

_Then she couldn't stand it anymore.  With violent insistence, Buffy leapt at him, hungry mouth demanding his.  Initially soft, their kiss grew with intensity as she bounded across remaining borders.  A flash and walls came crashing down.  She tasted him thoroughly—wholly.  Lips, tongue, and teeth.  He was flavored like a fine wine, coursing through her, milking those parts that had been left to sort out the world of never-ending confusion.  She demanded more than he could give—not that he didn't try.  His fervor was never put to the challenge.  Nothing could ever be enough._

_New words charged her voice.  She wanted to say, 'I love you' but it wasn't needed.  Somehow, inevitably, he always understood.  And she would never be ready for that.  She could think it, sure, but she would never be ready._

_It hurt.    _

_How long they remained like that, she didn't know.  It couldn't have been very long.  In the thralls of their kiss, Spike's head suddenly drew back and his eyes flashed, a tattered screaming escaping his lips.  With blunt force, he tore from her arms, falling to Acathla's feet as tremors overtook him.  It only lasted a minute—then he was back.  Blinking.  Steady.  Looking at her._

_"Buffy?"_

_Those eyes.  Those eyes!  What—_

_There was no time to consider.  Spike was gone the next instant, a pile of dust collecting at her feet. Buffy could summon no reaction at first.  She looked down, mouth forming a line of indifference, eyes as wide as saucers.  Nothing, then a horrendous uprising seized her lungs.  Climbing up her legs, her insides, tearing, rasping until release at the mouth.   The scream was loud and grasped a life of its own.  Desperately, she collapsed to her knees; hands clawing at what was left of him, as though her authority alone could piece him back together._

_A shadow fell over her and silenced her tears.  It wasn't reaction or reflex—rather a tight grasp on her throat, preventing any further release of ineffectual grief.  How could she cry for someone she had told with such ardor that she didn't love? That she hated?  Demon.  Demon.  Demon.  Evil.  Remorseless.  Mocking._

_The tears kept coming.  She couldn't stop them.  When Buffy finally looked up, she found herself in the presence of the Master.  The Master…not quite as she remembered him, but there was no denying his distinctiveness.  That smile.  That look of pure glee.  With a swift motion of his hand, he lured her to her feet—power blazing and influential.  She was overwhelmed with a tug of familiarity.  Dracula had done this to her years ago.  Waved her over, possessed her with his eyes, his sensuality.  The Master was not nearly as nice to look at, and yet his power over her was a mocking reflection of what transgression had taken place.  _

_He kicked at the dust beneath his feet, grasping her arm with fierce possessiveness.  Her hair was drawn from her neck, his chuckle rumbling against her back.  "Vae, puto deus fio," his dead voice sneered.  Then his fangs were bared and sinking into her.  Sucking her.  Draining her.  _

_Then there was Spike.  Standing before her, bare-chested, eyes panicked and arms outstretched.  Buffy's eyes widened as she shuffled, feeling still bits of dust collect around her feet.  He was different.  So different.  Bruises aligned his arms and shoulders from his fight—that fight with himself.  _

_"Make me what I was," he said. Then he was gone.  And she fell to the ground, cold, dead, and swirling into a whirlpool of blackness._

*~*~*

The clock was flashing a persistent 3:56AM when she found the courage to open her eyes.  

Of course, the room was vacant.  She had long ago deciphered the shadows on the wall from devilish fiends of malicious intent, but Slayer dreams always shook her stability.  They had been getting worse over the past few weeks, and though she couldn't say that night's was the most awful, it definitely ranked up there in the top five.  

With intent stillness, Buffy sat up, clutching herself tightly.  The room was the same as always, and yet it felt different.  Tainted.  She knew Willow had brought Spike up here during their heart-to-heart that evening, and even as he was hours away, she could still feel him near.  Perhaps it was the after-wear of seeing his visibly shaken demeanor at Giles's.  It was aggravating—this feeling without him being near.

It was her third awakening and this time, she swore she would not look out the window.  He wasn't there.  He hadn't been there when she checked before, and he wouldn't be there now.  

But she felt him.  It wasn't enough that her sensory went into overdrive when she was patrolling, but her modified Spike-tingly had been kicking her in the gut all evening, even without him lurking within convenient proximity.  He was in town, and that was enough for her senses.  

Coldness flushed over her with sudden insistence, shoving her sensory aside.  Buffy shivered and instinctively reached for the duster she kept near her bed, flinging it over her shoulders and coddling within its protective embrace.  They had not spoken directly that evening, but Spike gave his share of forthright insight, and as much as she hated to admit it, he was right.  There were other evils in the mix now, and worrying about him was the least of her troubles.

A Master was rising.  

With as often as she repeated that to herself, it didn't seem right.  The affect did little more than expand the sense of deadness growing inward.  A Master was rising.  A Master stronger than the one that had killed her.  A Master that would stop at nothing until she was dead.  Or suffering.  Or both.

The first nemesis she confronted was the Master.  The first true challenge.  So much had happened since then.  Every year had presented its face of indestructible evil, and every year seemed to get progressively worse.  Save the last three, when the challenge was minimal due to this uprising manifestation.  And yet, with all she had faced, with every foe that crossed her path, despite the increasing amount of difficulty to survive, the Master held the epitome of her fears.  Her first.  Her first defeat.  Her first apocalypse.    Her first death.  And now, one more menacing than the one before him would come to take his place, and though Giles was hesitant to say, she was certain the text indicated the death of the slayer.  It always did.

Did this mean a repeat of the beginning?  Would there be another Anointed One?  Another Harvest?  Or would that be for the next slayer to handle?

She wondered if she had lived so long _because _she had killed the Master.  And now for what?  Was it all in vain?

"I don't want to die," she whispered to the darkness.  Such an admission.  Die once and you get a second chance.  Die twice and your friends drag you kicking and screaming out of Heaven.  Die three times…was there a place in the world for a girl with as many lives as she?  The sensation itself was overwhelming.  She didn't know if she could do it again.

Buffy did not fear death, but she certainly did not crave it.  It was difficult, reflecting this threat with such indifference.  Cold was the night, and she did not know what to feel.

Except that Spike was in town, and she had promised herself she would see him today.  Somehow, knowing that overshadowed everything of significance with its looming tangibility.  Three years and she would see him.  It didn't feel that long.  It felt like an eternity—it felt like seconds.  It felt she had died a thousand times.  It felt it had been yesterday.  Emotions welled and confused.  How would she act around him?

She almost wished he had never left.  In retrospect, it was probably for the best.  Her feelings had been so one-sided after she had time to analyze herself, and acknowledging her partial fault hadn't been the highlight of the year.  Had Spike still been there, lingering about, she likely would have staked him out of spite.  But he hadn't been there.  If he only he had.  At least then she would know what to say to him.  All sense of prose vacated her body without rite.  The gap between them was broad and awkward.  Even working together, as Giles—despite his words—so obviously intended, might not quench the discomfiture blazing in the place resentment had once occupied.  A long-term silence, fixed with hard-to-answer questions and harder-to-hear answers.  With as much as she had prodded Giles the night before, he never came close to revealing why he had placed such implicit faith in Spike's goodwill.  Nothing beyond what she had overheard.  That he was there as a favor, and it was to protect her.

Protect her from the Master.

What honestly could Spike do that she couldn't?  After all, she was the Slayer.  Who said she needed protecting?  Buffy growled lightly to herself, flipping onto her stomach without removing the duster and drawing a pillow close to her chest.  The clock now read 3:58.  Her body was tired but she could not will her mind to rest.  

Not with the looming promise of further nightmares.

Not with another Master rising.

Not with Spike in town.

Not with these inner churnings that wouldn't leave her alone.  

Sleep had no place in this house.

*~*~*

That evening at the Magic Box was even more confined than the previous night.  It wasn't an arranged meeting; everyone sort of flocked there instinctually when something big was poking over the horizon.  The air gave way to new tensions.  No one had said much, save Willow and the Watcher, who spoke in private while cautiously tossing her weary glances.  Xander stood behind the register as he had the night before, obviously irritated. Her sister was next to him, keening, as though emphasizing her compliance with the opinion he had so actively voiced when the peroxide vampire was implicated. Willow, finished with her chat with Giles, shot her a suspiciously knowing glance before turning her attention to Angel.  Angel.  She had not spoken with him since their spat at the Bronze.  He also was conspicuously silent, catching her eye every now and then, though not saying a word.

Not twenty-four hours had passed and she could detect a significant weight marking the air.  For a minute, Buffy wished Anya still partook in these wearisome get-togethers.  At least she knew how to keep the conversation rolling. 

The air of secrecy had intensified.  Without a word being said, she felt like she was the lone participant standing on the edge of a great discovery, and everyone else was invited to partake.  A definite mood swing had overpowered Angel, to be sure.  When he entered the Magic Box, she had expected him to immediately leap into the righteousness of his logic.  However, he looked at her with solemn indifference, as though suddenly he had reason to be as confused as she was.  Then, with apathy, he shook his head and retreated to the back of the store, speaking only once in response to Willow's greeting.  

A ten-minute interval passed before Giles broke the silence.

"I have discussed things with Buffy," he announced, speaking only to her though his words were directed to everyone else.  "My…arrival was hasty in a discovery I made with…" He paused, as though willing himself to remember, "Spike a few days ago."  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Xander's gaze brighten with fiery intensity, though she knew he would not act on his rage.  With as much as he hated Spike, he kept his word to her with a thousand times the impact.  

The look in the Watcher's eyes flashed as he sensed the tension searing at the reminder of his unlikely companion, and it initiated an added emphasis on his irritated nerves.  "With his help…no, that's not right…Spike contacted the Council and convinced them to send me the volumes of books I mentioned yesterday.  Through our research, we discovered that…" He sighed and removed his glasses.  "A new Master will be arising very soon.  One more powerful than the last.  It has only happened once before…the Master that Buffy killed almost ten years ago was the second of his order.  He was summoned a decade after the one preceding him was slain.  And so it is prophesized to continue.  A Master is killed, and ten years later, another will arise, and kill the Slayer responsible, should she still be living.  And he will live until killed by another Slayer…and the cycle begins again."  The room was so still; one would assume it was filled with the unliving.  Buffy had heard this the night before, of course, but it made her shiver just the same.  "The books decreed it would only happen three times.  I don't know if that means the Order of the Masters will be destroyed with the coming of the next Slayer to defeat him, or if the…" The words _world would end _were tangible, but they had faced too many apocalypses to need the threat voiced by now.  "All I know is, soon, very soon, this Master will arise.  And Buffy will be his target."

A long beat of reflective silence settled over the room.  Heavy, thick, and pendulous.  Buffy's eyes were fixed on her clasped hands.  There was nothing she could say—nothing to drive the coldness away.

Finally, Xander cleared his throat.  "So, all of this just slipped your mind last night?"

"I wanted to tell Buffy alone before I told any of you."  Giles glanced to her, then to Angel, who had been there the first time when she was informed she would die at the Master's hand.  "But everyone was more concerned with my travel companion and his intentions.  That…and I was hesitant.  I admit it.  I saw how it affected Buffy the first time, and even with everything we have faced…" A lengthy pause.  "I spoke with Spike at length last night, and he made me see beyond my selfish withdrawal."

"Yeah, speak of the devil, if he's so good now, why isn't he here?" Xander maneuvered from behind the register and prowled toward the Watcher.  "Especially if he has his big friends to protect him?  Doesn't seem too noble to me.  Coward is more the word that springs to mind."

"Xander," Willow berated softly, eliciting a sharp glance from Angel.  Suddenly, they seemed to parallel the same understanding.  "Hush.  That won't do any good."

"Well, neither will he unless he gets his priorities straight."  Angrily, he wheeled back to Giles.  "You said he was here to help.  All right.  I can deal with that.  Sounds like we'll need it.  But I don't see him helping.  Is he here?  No.  All he's doing is starting fights.  We're better off without the distraction."

"No," Willow retorted firmly.  "You're starting fights.  Spike's not doing anything.  He's not here.  What has he done to you since he's been back?  Nothing.  Or anything to Buffy, for that matter.  He doesn't want to be here anymore than you want him here.  Why would he come around, anyway?  With the welcoming you're itching to give him, I'd stay away, too."

The accumulation of conflicted surprise clouding Xander's eyes was moving.  He regarded his best friend as though he had never seen her before.  "When did you suddenly start taking his side?" 

Buffy heaved a sigh and kept her gaze trained on her hands.

"When I saw him last night."  Willow looked sharply to the Watcher, who mirrored her admission with no surprise.  Rather, there was appreciative gratitude behind his eyes.  He was no longer treading enemy terrain.  "Giles was right.  He's changed, and he's here to help us.  And if any one of you know-it-alls decides to go test your testosterone and do what you think is heroic, I'll…I'll…well, I don't know, but it won't be nice."  There was a quiver at the end of her tone.  The threat made so unconsciously several years before wouldn't have meant anything, but now everything was different.  Everyone walked on eggshells around Rosenberg.  

Despite motivation, it seemed to do the trick.  Xander's face softened and he stepped back, hands coming up in a sign of neutrality.  "Right, Will," he whispered.  "I already told Buffy I wouldn't…do anything."

The Slayer's head shot upward, catching Willow's eye.  Tears were threatening to spill down her cheeks, and she sniffed and turned away.  Her heart tore in two.  Though she had never said it, Buffy knew her friend had needed something more than the sanctuary they had offered when she returned from London.  She needed someone who had been there with her, holding her hand.  Understanding.  There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the conversation she had with Spike dealt with that comprehension.  Beforehand, Willow's reaction to the vampire weighed heavily on the look Buffy portrayed.  That had all ended the night before, and it was painfully clear why.  

"I still don't see why everyone is suddenly warming up to him," Xander said honestly, aggravation in his tone, but controlled.  "I mean…what happened?  This time yesterday, Buffy was crying her heart out and Willow…you didn't seem to…and Giles!  You never explained…Dawn, help me!"

"It doesn't seem so hard to understand to me," her sister retorted.  Confliction warred her tone but didn't man her words.  Loyalty was the overpowering emotion.  "Spike's a killer and a rapist and he doesn't deserve to live."

Willow's eyes flared painfully, but she didn't say anything.  

Something stirred in the back.  Angel.  Buffy closed her eyes and swallowed a groan.  With everything that was developing, the last she needed was another endless debate on the thorough badness of demons.  

However, his words surprised her with frankness and consideration.  He didn't seem anymore convinced, just contemplative and confused.  Perhaps hurt.  Hurt because of her?  No, not anymore.  She knew that voice well.  His tenor suggested self-disgust and aberration.  "You heard Willow," he said softly, commanding everyone's attention with stunning detachment.  A complete one eighty from his vocalized opinion the previous day.  Buffy had to blink, her gaze finally broken from her hands as she wheeled slowly in her chair and stared at him.  He didn't respond to the stunned reaction he was receiving.  "And you've heard Giles.  The way I see it, we have plenty more to worry about than Spike's return to town.  He'll come around when he knows he's welcome.  Having him here now, discussing these things, would just be distracting—especially with the hostility."

That was it.  Something had happened.  Something big.  Willow's altered opinion and sudden bestowment of unabridged benevolence was confusing but acceptable.  After all, she had felt evil before and was still in the process of healing.  But Angel.  Angel!  With everything he had scolded her about at the Bronze, the patronizing sneer of a man who had been there, who claimed nothing—not even love—could alter the demeanor of a remorseless demon, such a change of esteem could not be obtained unless…

Buffy jumped to her feet and pivoted violently to face him.  "Did you see Spike last night?" she demanded.    

Angel returned her gaze sharply before casting his eyes downward.  "I did," he admitted.  "He was coming by your house to tell you something, and I…we—"

There was a sharp gasp from behind.  Buffy wheeled again, too fast for Willow to smother her recognition.  The same response from Giles.  A secret shared by three.

Dawn and Xander alone looked confused, their manifest judgment not wavering.  

And no one was talking.

"All right!" she finally exploded.  "I'm getting tired of this.  Someone better tell me what the hell is going on, now!  Giles shows up and admits he and Spike have been best friends since he went back to London.  Willow runs into him last night and now they're buddies.  Angel…Angel, you fed me so much bullshit about things you couldn't possibly understand, and now you…what's going on?!"

"Ask him!" Willow returned sharply.  "What, that's what you said you were going to do!  Find him, Buffy.  Find him and ask him.  It should be obvious.  It was to all of us!"

"What was obvious?" It was true first tremor she had heard in Dawn's voice.

"That's for your sister to find out," she replied, eyes not leaving the Slayer's.  "Go on, then.  Find him.  Talk to him.  Ask him.  You owe him that much."

"Wait a sec." Xander stormed forward.  "She doesn't owe him—"

A sense of passiveness overwhelmed her, and Buffy heaved a sigh.  With accented impartiality, she stepped forward and placed a calming hand on her friend's shoulder, smoldering his anger.  "She's right, Xan.  I do need to talk to him."  She tightened the duster around her, watching Angel's eyes blaze in momentary acknowledgment.  "And I'm going right now."


	13. Ignorance

**Chapter Twelve**

She was certain her feet were made of sandstone with every step she took.  Night blazed and enveloped with protective sheathing, but it wasn't enough.  Weighty breaths emanated from her heaving chest, each trembling with a lack of conviction.  The continuous dance of one step forward, two steps back was beginning to ebb at her patience and challenge her resolve, but she couldn't take the silence any longer.  A day had passed since Dawn announced that Spike was back in town, but it felt like an eternity.  So much had happened.  

And yet she still did not hold any of her desired answers.

Meaningless words sprang to mind, discarded after momentary analysis.  She was going to see him.  She knew it.  There was no going back.  That much alone was hard enough to accept.  But then there would be words.  Looks.  Confessions and likely a tearful apology.  From who?  Who was more deserving?  Who had to apologize to whom?

Buffy fought to hold onto the hurt that had followed her that first year, but there was nothing left to grasp.  What had he done that she hadn't initiated?  His existence alone had been fault enough at her feet.  Existence, followed by that absurd humanity.  Demons weren't supposed to exhibit compassion, especially no more than humans did.  But he had.  He had defied everything she knew about vampires, and she resented him for it.

Never more than she resented herself.  

However, that was beside the material point.  After all, Spike was evil and soulless.  Under all those good intentions, the will to be hers and to do the right thing, a killer resided.  Trapped.  Prodded.  And with the right amount of influence, he would break through the barrier that had persuaded him to change by trapping his true nature.  Chip be damned.  It was technology, and technology failed them time and again.  Sooner or later, the chip would fail them, too.  And then where would they be?

She hated him for loving her without repression.  Hated him for being good.  Hated him for changing her world.  Hated him for making her what she was.  Hated her for making her feel.  If she could feel that way about a monster, what did it make her?   A blinding prejudice separated myth from actuality.  Spike had been one of them once, sure, but even then he was different.  Her match.  Her equal.

He came to her even before the chip.  They had killed Angelus together.  They had saved the world.  All these things he was supposed to be incapable of.  Love.  Faith.  Trust.  Tenderness.  Comfort.  

There was danger there, too.  She had seen it.  The demon provoked after so many times wronged.  After being beat and kicked and scorned.  After being denied what it already knew.  No justification in his actions.  No one could excuse what he did to her, anymore than she could excuse what she did to him.

It felt good, beating him up for loving her.  For making her love him back.  Convincing.  He was the incarnation of her suffering.  Of her stubborn realization of such blatant wrongness.  And after a while, he couldn't take it.  The caged animal begged for reprise.  She had used him, and it killed her because she knew she could never willfully give him what he wanted.

This all emerged after time, of course.  After a while, Buffy could continue without thinking about it.  Without reflecting the adolescence of her mistakes.  She had tried hatred and failed.  Resentment.  Her body ached at night with remembrance of what almost concurred.  It hurt.  It hurt that she could push someone who loved her with such leisure unbiased to go to such extremes.  For a long while, she thought it was a reflection of his demon.  Of what he was and would always be.  But not so.  It was more that he had changed for her, and loving her without any sense of retribution had forced his darker side to emerge.  And the minute he realized it, what he had nearly done, he left and never came back.

Until now.

It hurt.  They hurt.  They hurt each other.  That's the way it was.

She hadn't consciously admitted that she loved him yet.  It had taken years simply to forgive.  Years and a shoulder to cry on.  Willow was always there.  Always understanding.  Always ready to say it was all right to cry.  All right to miss him.  All right to forgive.

A day so long ago etched tightly in her memory.  Standing in the Magic Box.  It was shortly after Willow returned, and they were counting inventory.  Then, innocently, her friend had glanced over, noted with confusion the coat hanging over her shoulders, and asked, "Hey…isn't that Spike's?"

That was all it took.  Buffy had abruptly dropped whatever she was holding and dissolved into tears.  The wealth of confusion welling inside was enough to electrify.  Desperately, she was coaxed into Willow's similarly misplaced embrace, spilling the awful truth of her resentment and disorder onto her healing friend's compliant shoulders.  

"Do you love him?" she had asked.    

"No," Buffy had replied.  "No.  How can I?  After what he did?  How can I love something like that?  How can I love a demon, Will?  How can I love something that's evil?  How can I love something that hurt me?"

The look on Willow's face had gone distant, vague but understanding.  After a long minute, she shrugged and offered, "I don't know.  But Buffy, it's all right if you do."  A painful echo of Tara's reassurance, spoken what felt like a century before.  Buffy had bit her lip and nodded, and didn't speak on the subject further.  

That was all the direct talk they had shared about Spike over the past three years.  There had been moments of understanding, but never blatant discussion.  The night at the bookstore when she discovered a poetry collection with his name on it, and Willow's sharp consideration followed by an almost immediate purchase.  The night Buffy phoned her in a panic because the duster was still at Xander's, and she knew he would recognize it if it weren't attached to her shoulders.  The previous night, when she lurched into her friend's embrace and was accepted without question when informed that Spike was back in town.  Last night at the Bronze.  Minutes ago at the Magic Box.  All there.  All welling inside.

In truth, Buffy was surprised that it had taken Spike so long to hurt her back with all the pain she had inflicted without retaliation.  She had allowed herself to forget what he was—and more importantly—_he _had forgotten what he was.  That night in the bathroom was a steadfast reminder.  They couldn't forget again.

The graveyard was in sight.  Buffy drew in a breath and held it.  She pulled the duster tighter around her body, then looked down and realized how it would appear if she stood in front of him wearing his coat.  Resolution gave way and she reached to pull it off—paused—then wiggled back inside its protective embrace.  Though she never thought of it as hers, truth of the matter was, she never went anywhere without it on her shoulders. She felt safe inside its sheathing. All more besides, he had seen her wearing it at the Bronze—there was no point in a cover up.  

At last she released her breath, eyes closed tightly.  A thrill ran up her spine and she shook her head clear.  It was time.  No turning back.  

_Patrol, _she told herself.  _You're just out patrolling.  You might run into a vampire…a blond vampire…but hey…there are lots of vampires out there.  I—_

The sound of a shrill scream perturbed the air with blunt intensity.  Buffy was forced out of her reverie, all sense of vigilance stripped before she could blink.  Abandoned of her reserve, she took off in a bold run, producing a stake rolled up one of the sleeves.  

"You'd think after a while that people would stop taking midnight strolls through the cemetery," she quipped between pants.  The scene before her was expanding and she had entered the gates before she knew it.  It was instinct now—her thoughts forgone all except the repetitious _save the girl _mantra that hummed within her cavity.  She leapt over headstones and was ready to dive into battle when her stomach flipped in the sense of a very familiar presence lurking nearby.  It paralyzed her with unconcealed recognition.

Spike was there, unaware of her proximity.  Two vamps had already begun to feed on a midnight snack—neither terribly bright.  Buffy watched in stunned awe as he grasped one by the head, twisted, and in mid-process, kneed the other in the gut.  If the scent of blood pouring from the victim's neck distracted him, he did not let it show.  Instead, he lurched forward and seized what looked like a stick lying next to a gravestone, rendering the second vampire a cloud of dust within seconds.  

It wasn't as though she had never seen him kill his own kind before.  Spike was a demon and loved violence as much as the next person.  But the look on his face was genuine concern.  When he was certain there were no other vampires in convenient propinquity, he heaved a sigh and helped the girl to her feet.  Buffy saw dribbles of blood rolling down her neck.

"Tha—thank you," the girl said dazedly, her body quaking.  "I don't know how to…or what to say…I…he bit me, I…"

"Don't worry about it, luv.  Here."  Spike reached into his back pocket and produced a handkerchief, tenderly applying it to the angry spot at her throat.  "Right crazed buggers," he said, a bit too casually.  "Probably escaped from the loony bin or somethin' like that.  You're all right now."  He held the cloth at her neck until she understood that she was welcome to it.  "Feeling woozy at all?"

"A little."  She smiled weakly, taking a few steps away.

"Got someone you could call?  I'll walk you 'ome, but—"

"No…I can make it.  Live right across the street."  She indicated the direction with a nod.  Buffy gasped and ducked out of sight.   "I've been taking this shortcut for about a week now…between here and work.  Don't think—"

"I wouldn't do that.  Damn wonky folks come out 'ere and cause all kinds of badness.  Won't always be someone 'ere to help you."  When she thought it was safe, Buffy raised her head and peered over the headstone.  "Right then.  Better be on your way, chit."    

The girl flashed him a grateful smile, stopping every few yards to look back, even though he never did.  Both were long out of sight before the Slayer thought to rise to her feet.  If she called out after him he would hear, but she didn't call out.  Her inner rationale screamed it would was growing more difficult the longer she put off their inevitable meeting, and though this only bought her minutes, her will forbade any other course.  If anything, Buffy wanted a controlled situation—someplace where she was guaranteed quiet reflection.  The graveyard offered no such sanctuary.  

Drawing in a deep breath, she shivered and sank further into her coat, trying to piece together what had just transpired.  There was no mistaking the peroxide vampire, but Spike wasn't one to save people out of the kindness of his unbeating heart.  Buffy shook her head.  The past two days had offered a list of things Spike had never shown interest in but had constructed into cold habit for his everyday schedule.  Spike did not make negotiations with the Council.  Spike did not write poetry.  Spike did not research.  Spike was not Giles's friend.

Buffy knew the answer was simple.  She also knew that she likely had a grasp on what it entailed, but headstrong ignorance overruled commonsense.  There was still a very real inkling of doubt.  If adequately provoked, would he lash out?  Would he sneer?  Would he show his true colors?

Would he try to hurt her again?

Despite the façade of goodness, there were so many inconsistencies to regard.  A warning long dead cast by an old lover sprang to mind with treacherous results.  _Once he starts something, he doesn't stop.  _

But he had stopped.  He stopped for her.

Would that be enough?  _Was _it enough?

There was only one way to know.  Buffy shook her head, clutching her stake with fearful insistence before following his darkened path into the shadows.  This was it.  The test.

No turning back.

*~*~*

The crypt was deficient of all sense of luxury.  When previously resorted to such tidings, William had done everything he could to make his living condition as comfortable as possible.  There were no elements of home here.  He knew better than to make himself feel too relaxed.  Though he hadn't endured a state of such utter barbarity in several years, the implication failed to bother him.  He was accustomed to the darkness, to living in shadows.  It was almost refreshing: he had always taken pleasure in sins of the flesh, and never shied from the opportunity to make himself at ease.  Now the drive was gone.  Even the notable lack of a telly went unattended.  Darkness was soothing and appropriate.

He had saved a life.

William smiled tightly, studying the intricate patterns of thin fibers in construction by a spider in the corner.  The life saved wasn't his first, he knew, but it surged his weary body with pride and satisfaction.  A woman was alive because of him.  Because he had been there.  Because he cared.

The sense of compassion made the situation unique.  Beforehand it was all for show.  Demons generally didn't make habit of rescuing mortals, a rule he amended in effort to please and earn the favor of the Slayer.  Always fueled with selfish motivation.  Not so anymore.  After causing so much hurt, it was the least he could do to compensate for years of joyful carnage.  There was a lot to make up before, and even if he lived to see the end of the world, it would never be enough.

Granted, the end of the world was likely just around the corner.  Again.

An inward twitch cautioned him too late of an approaching presence, and William felt himself go numb.  Dryness stretched his throat, all sense of fulfillment leaving him for the face of instantaneous sorrow.  He knew she was coming today, knew what she told Red and herself, but there was no way he could have been ready.  Not for the first time, he found himself at an immeasurable crossroads, not knowing which path was the safest.  He didn't want to see her—his body ached with need, but he could not wish it so.  What would he see when he looked in her eyes?  The same confused desertion reflected the night before?  No—she was stronger in the face of challenge.  If she was here, it was because she was prepared.  And no matter the setting, she held the advantage.

She always would.

Without further reserve, the crypt doors flew open, and Buffy Summers paraded through.  Even if he had prepared, any effort would have been rendered useless at the pivotal moment.  His body drained of feeling, and all he could do was stare.  She looked wonderful.  Eyes wide, blazing with unquenched fire, hair long—flowing.  Skin flushed, chest heaving, stake ready in hand.  A visage of rose red death.  Her expression was unreadable; flame withering slightly when she saw him.  Whatever conflict he read was likely manifest from secreted hopes of the ever-fictitious happy ending.  William swelled with an excursion of overwhelming emotion.  He refused to let himself cry.       

For seconds, they stood in silence, both heaving for air out of need and habit.  A war of doubt crossed her face.  She looked him up and down, up again, deep into his eyes, trying to see.  He, in turn, was distracted by treacherous detail.  The duster he had pulled off his second slayer complimented her nicely—as though it was made for her and no one else.  When their eyes met again, the period of analysis was over.  All that was left was fire.

There was venom in her voice when she spoke—harshness that would have ended him had he not heard the falsity behind it.  William drew in a sharp breath, biting the inside of his cheeks.  Whatever pain was there was caused at his hand.  He wanted so desperately to reach for her but didn't dare for all the world.

"You know," she huffed, lip quivering.  A similar fight to control her emotions blazed with startling intensity. "For someone who once told me that I wasn't worth a second go, you sure are persistent."

Parry and thrust.  She was grasping at straws so blessedly unattached to anything that resembled himself three years ago.  Nevertheless, any arbitrary barb from the past to suggest spiteful fault on his behalf tugged at the strings of his heart.  Whatever she said now had the potency for great hurt.  

"Buf—"

"No.  No words."  She would have been more convincing had her voice not cracked.  When he looked up again, the stake was poised and ready for the final blow.  Her eyes betrayed her will.  Without needing confirmation, he understood it was for show.  

One last release.

"Spike, you're a killer," she spat, eyes darting everywhere but home.  She was trembling.  "And…a…a rapist."  He flinched painfully but didn't look away.  Anything that came out of her mouth was deserved.  There was a surprised blink at his indifference before she regained tenacity, drawing her arm back further.  "And I should have done this years ago."

Aching familiarity coincided with her words, and he had no trouble placing it.  William nodded slowly in wry acceptance.  It was full bluff, and he understood that.  Final closure.  Perhaps mapping their endless distance.  Or maybe he was wrong and she did intend to end it.  Here.  Now.  A sense of righteous justice.

But Buffy's eyes burned with emotion, revealing herself for all that consecrated indecision.  Last night's visit from Red had hurt more than this.  Maliciousness was expected.  Forgiveness was unbearable.  

Closing his eyes tightly, compliant of his deserved fate, William nodded in release.  "Do it," he replied at last, an air of sacrament passing through his body.  "Bloody just do it."

"What?"

"End my torment.  Seeing you everywhere.  Everyday.  Feeling you wherever I go, no matter what I…." William's eyes opened but shot downward as he stepped back, offering his chest as the stake's trusty sheath.  "Went to London and it didn't help, even with a sodding ocean between us."  With that, his gaze caught her again, true to his invitation.  "Told Ripper not to…" A breath.  "Just kill me."

She was on the verge of tears but would not retract her deception.  The stake was unneeded—the torn and reluctant empathy flowing through her eyes doing more damage than any weapon ever could.  He bit back another swelling emotional outburst.  Empty promises that all would end well filled his chest, and he nearly scoffed at the connotation.  Lies wouldn't do.

William expected her to withdraw—anticipated it.  But he did not imagine experiencing a rush of loss when she lowered the stake.  The thought was dismissed and shoved into the far recesses of his mind.  Craving death would do him little good, especially with the new danger arising.  However, the retreat of her tangible weapon bought the expense of another reaction—something he never fathomed and couldn't grasp.  

With a strangled cry of burdened surrender, Buffy launched herself forward, grasped his head and lowered his mouth to hers.  William was too startled to react at first, bones rattling with earth-shattering release.  The fleeting notion that he was dreaming occurred and was rejected for lack of caring.  If it was a dream, he wished never to awake.  Growling his capitulation, he hungrily returned her ardor with passion he never again thought to feel.  Their lips bruised each other: eager, sad.  When he reached to grasp her shoulders, she let the stake fall to the ground, enabling her to pull him closer, desperate and needy.  Hot tears stung his cheeks but he didn't know if they belonged to him or the bundle of trembling flesh caught in his embrace.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, warning bells sounded, echoing into long vacant chambers.  A flash, and he saw her sprawled on the bathroom floor, thrashing against him as her sharp cries of protest perturbed the dream-like atmosphere.  He heard them but didn't register the intent.  Didn't listen.  Selfish need drove his plight and his will knew to obey nothing else.  Sharp pangs filled his empty cavity, and even as his turmoil was not shared, he could will himself to submit to rapidly escalating desire.   

Slowly, William reached behind him and took her clasped hands in his own, unwinding them from his neck.  Similarly, he indulged a painful gulp, retracting his lips from hers before drawing in a breath.  His gaze drank in her startled confusion, though aimed at whom he didn't know.  Assaulting him with a kiss had obviously not been her intention.  Spontaneity was wonderful like that.  He didn't know if she had made things better or worse.

The void in his chest expanded with the loss of contact.

When it became intolerable to look at her, William turned away, hands finding purchase at his hips, body wrought with strangled tension.  "I can't do this again," he confessed softly.      

He heard her draw in a breath, menace having vanished from her tone, leaving sorrowful understanding.  There was an air of familiar disgust at her actions, as well.  Familiar.  It sent a sharp pain across his chest.  "I know," she replied at last.  "I can't, either."

Without turning to face her, he shook his head and fixed his gaze on his footwear.  "Why are you here?"

"I…ummm…" Her thoughts were distorted—confused.  Every fiber of his being urged him to pivot and express his similar misplacement, but he couldn't find the will.  He thought he would break if he looked at her again.

If he saw those eyes that weren't rightly filled with hate.

"I came…Giles…Willow…we were talking…" Buffy's voice trailed off again, regarding him with pleading modulation.  "Please turn around."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Can't look at you."  William heard the feeble quake in his tone and ineffectually berated himself.  "Hurts too bloody much."

"You can't look at me?" She was shooting for anger, and while the sting hit its mark, there was lack of feeling behind it.  "Do you know what it took for me to come here tonight?"

"Yes."  Still he did not turn.  Couldn't bring himself to face her.  "Wicked unfair, I know.  I just…can't."

"Spike."  There was sharpness in her voice.  Commanding.  "Turn around."

A fervent shake of his head.

"Spike!"      

"I can't bloody look at you, Slayer."  He heaved in debate, shaking his head again.  "Not without wanting to stake myself."

A reverent pause of consideration.  The next breath trembled, and he heard her kneel forward, pluck the stake from the place she had dropped it, and shuffle back to her feet.  "There," she said with resolve.  "The stake is gone now.  All temptation away.  Look at me."

William sighed once more, smiling at her simplicity.  "Buffy, I—"

"Look.  At.  Me."

It pained him, but there was no denying her.  With a breath of resignation, he finally turned and met her eyes.  The vibrant splay of conflicted shooting behind a tear-blinded scabbard crumbled his resolve into bits of nothingness.  Again the urge to comfort was great, but he didn't dare budge.  It wasn't his place, or his right.  So he stood there, watching her as bits of himself wore away.  Pain touched every dead nerve in his body.  His skin tightened over weary bones.  It hurt.  It hurt to look at her.  To look at her and not see hate. 

No hate.  But no trust, either.  No stirrings of forgiveness as Red had suggested, but there was compassion.  A reason, a want to understand.

More than he could have ever hoped for.

And it nearly killed him.

"There," she said at last.  "That's better."

William flinched again at the lack of any sort of resignation.

"Now…I want a straight answer."  Buffy puffed out a breath, expressing difficulty maintaining eye contact.  However, she admirably managed to fulfill her participation—she had demanded his eyes and would not risk losing them over her own selfishness.  "Why did you come back?"

William scoffed and edged away, looking down but not turning.  "There is no straight answer to that, pet.  Bloody hell, don't I wonder."  He shook his head and met her eyes again.  "Shouldn't be here.  I know that.  Won't pretend it otherwise.  Mostly because Ripper asked me to come…noted wackiness was about to start again.  Bad wackiness.  I came 'ere because he needed my help."  

"That all?"

"'S what I tell myself.  'S what's easiest to deal with."  A sigh rolled off his body.  "I came because he said I could help you."

She nodded, though her gaze crackled with disbelief.  If anything, she _wanted _to believe.  She wanted answers for all untended questions. "Why didn't you tell me it was you on the phone when I called London?"

"Don't rightly know," William retorted honestly.  "I heard you…I knew it was you before you spoke.  I just…too hard.  It was too hard.  At the time, it didn't seem to matter that I'd be seein' you in a few days.  I jus'…I've seen a lot of badness, luv.  Been through a bleedin' lot.  Comin' here's taken stones I didn't think I had."  He chuckled humorlessly.  "May not still.  I guess we'll see."

Buffy's eyes narrowed a bit but she nodded just the same.  He could practically see her mind scrambling to find another inquiry.  "Why are you working with Giles?  You two never exactly struck me as buddy/buddy."

William smiled sadly in repose, shaking his head and taking a further step away.  It wasn't an act of distancing—he used movement as he used words; expressing stress or comfort.  Finally he stopped, taking a seat on a slab of stone.  The invitation was there for her to do the same, though he was not complacent enough to voice it.  "Trust me, pet," he answered softly. "I never thought I'd see the day, either.  Ripper's a tough old git.  Hell to get along with, but a right old chum when things get messy."  A look of intense fondness seized his features.  "I owe 'im a lot."

These were obviously not the explanations she was expecting: filled with unquestionable sincerity.  With every word he spoke, he could see her sinking into further confusion and doubt, never coming closer to her coveted answer.  The single explanation that put all others to shame.  It was there, radiating behind his willing eyes for her to see.  However, he understood her indecisiveness.  As always, Angel was annoyingly intuitive.  Chances were some part of her knew already.  It was a matter of recognition, and he refused to spell anything out for her.  

Similarly, it was her right not to accept the evident change.  He wouldn't presume to take choice away, even if choice coincided with ignorance.  

And the questions kept coming.  "Would you have come if Giles hadn't asked you to?"

"Not likely," he retorted truthfully.  "Didn't think my being 'ere would help you at all."

The unspoken inference made them both twitch in discomfort.  Buffy drew in a breath and held it, looking around as though for the first time self-conscious.

Silence stretched and teetered.  

"Willow is glad you're back," she said finally, wrapping the duster tighter around herself.  "Whatever you two talked about last night…I don't believe I've seen her that relaxed in a long time."

William smiled, cold skin flushed with unexpected warmth.  It was a good, sincere smile—and he saw her reflect the realization with astonishment.  As Spike, he hadn't had reason to smile without inevitably twisting it into a smirk.  A true smile was rare.  She had seen them, of course—usually when he was inside her.  He had never had reason to smile before, most certainly not when a person was mentioned as being happy.  Spike simply never cared.

Especially if that person wasn't her.

"I'm glad," he said at last.  "Poor Red.  I should have…" The words _been here _formed effortlessly, and while he believed it, a very real part of him could not will it so.  "Done somethin'.  Maintained contact, or whatnot.  Been there for her an' all.  She needs someone from the other side, and I've had my fair share.  Done things I'd…" Another flash to that awful night.  William's speech abruptly stopped with insinuation.  If they traveled that road, she would know immediately.  There was no way he could talk about what almost occurred without choking on remorse.  For the briefest minute, he felt himself slip back—as though stationed at the beginning of a caucus race.  "I can't," he finally gasped.  "I'm…"

Buffy took a step backward, eyes flaring dangerously.  "Don't.  I don't want to talk about it."

"I don't either," he agreed.

Direct contradiction.  There was no way _not _to inexorably talk about it.  "Never say you're sorry," she whispered.

William's eyes widened.  "What?"

"I can't do this.  I can't pretend anymore.  We both know better.  Don't…don't lie to me."

A part of him screamed and died.  How could she think that?  How could anyone walk away from doing that to the person they loved more than anything and not immediately crave death?  It didn't take a soul to initiate that sort of compunction.  He had never hated himself so fiercely as he did that night.  "Buffy, I—"

"Don't!" she warned sharply, taking a step back.

"No.  Let me say this an' I…" Her eyes pleaded him, offering a much-needed glance at her breaking heart.  Then he understood, and he had to remind himself again that he possessed not the privilege to go to her.  They stood miles apart and would likely never find the other at a point of reasonable comprehension.  

Tears clouded her gaze.  "Don't lie to me."

She didn't want lies and she couldn't handle the truth.  What was there to tell?  They sank into further silence, heavy and confining.

"Did you miss me?"

William's eyes snapped shut.  In seconds, her tone had softened—fire quenched by an internal cold shower.  The alternative to one extreme.  Slowly, his body calmed.  Funny that he should need it to calm, as it bore no heart rate or pulse.  "So much," he replied, making no attempt to mask his pain.  "But I wouldn't've come back.  Never.  Not on my own.  Even if old Ripper started thinkin' straight an' kicked me out for good.  And as soon as this Master thing blows over, you won't hear from me again."

The honesty behind his words made her wince.  Then it grew awkward.  A sense of finale.  The end.

It was the truth.  These next weeks would be their last.  And despite rationality, William didn't know how to feel about that.  London had presented the safe hold of never believing he would see Sunnydale again.  Now that he was back, the thought of leaving acted both as a growing comfort and similar dread.  Their conversation was becoming increasingly difficult to endure.  

"Spike." Buffy's voice drew him immediately to the present.  That tone was grave and reluctant.  They were talking about the past again.  The past he couldn't bare to think about.  "I know I just said…but I don't think we can't _not _talk about what happened before you left."  A cringe of acknowledgement.  She pursed her lips and drew in a deep breath.  "I was angry, hurt…I—"

"And you should be," William replied, sitting up sharply and at last turning to face the wall.  There was no objection from her end.  "You can't…bloody hell, Buffy, just hit me and leave.  Stake me an' have it over with.  I can't take this."

She blinked.  "What?"

"I came 'ere with the knowin' that everyone would rightly wish I was a pile of dust.  Figure'd to be dead now, or…" Violently, he whirled to face her, minutes away from tears.  "Or worse.  'Stead, Red warms up to me.  Hugs me to sodding oblivion, all the while telling me that you don't hate me like you should."  A growl tickled his throat.  "So if we're going to talk about it, then let's talk. But no fancying up the truth. Tell me you hate me, Buffy.  Don't drag it to the bleeding end."

"I don't hate you." He choked a sob at her honesty.  It pained him more than he could bear.  Ostensibly unmindful, she continued,  "I don't know what to feel anymore.  What you did hurt me.  I never thought that you would do that.  I lied to you before.  I had grown to trust you, and that was what hurt the most.  That I trusted you, and—"

William could no longer hide.  The stillness of the crypt rang with the abruptness of his sob—just one.  It startled her, brought her own tears closer to home, but she went on.  He understood that she needed to go on.

"I handled it wrong." It was becoming progressively more difficult to speak. "Everything.  None of that should have happened.  But what I did to you…I hated myself, and I took that out on—"

"Stop!" he cried desperately, unable to endure anymore.  The words _if you loved me you'd stop _came from nowhere, undeclared for the likely continuance of painful apologies.  She had to know how she was hurting him, lest she would not say such things.  "I can't bloody take it."

The dying spark flared to life behind her eyes.  Her patience had worn to its end. "For Chrissake, what happened?" Newly uncovered edginess slapped him across the face.  A prolongation of her ignorance.  She lived there happily.  Buffy stumbled over herself, looking at him hard. Trying and failing to see.  Tears dropped on occasion, a few.  The escapees before the deluge.  "You're so…"

"I'm what?"  Unable to tolerate their distance any longer, William stalked forward, grasping her shoulders.  He wanted to comfort and yet found himself shaking her, as though trying to knock sense into her unwilling conscious.  The act itself was not violent; he couldn't make himself hurt her if he tried.  The floodgates opened and she could no longer hold back—joining him in his tears.  "I'll tell you what I am.  I'm a monster, Buffy.  The Big Bad.  You forgot it once.  Bloody hell, even I forgot it once.  I was happy thinkin' I could be one of you, but that led down the road of wackiness and bad doings, and the delusion is over now.  I can't change—you were right about that.  I'll never change.  I'm a demon.  A nasty, evil demon."  He released her when he could no longer look at her, sighing and stepping away.  At times, his temper frightened him.  The thought of losing control again rattled his senses beyond comprehension. "You should go," he said softly.  "You shouldn't 'ave come 'ere."

A few seconds passed before Buffy found words, filled adequately with the sounds of mild crying.  "I shouldn't have," she agreed.  "But I had to.  And had you come back three years ago, I probably would have had to chain myself up to keep from doing something I'd grow to regret.  Like staking you.  But you didn't come back.  And I…"

"You what?" His voice was barely above a whisper.  He couldn't manage more.

"I grew up.  Took me twenty-five years to finally accept fault, but hey, here I am.  You hurt me.  But I hurt you, too.  That was wrong.  And I'm so—"

"Get out."

A new desperation hit her voice.  "Spike—"

"Get out.  Out of here before you say somethin' you're sorry for later."  William huffed a breath and turned one last time to face her.  "Don't apologize to me, pet.  Ever.  I can't…" He broke off and pointed at the crypt door.  "Just get out."

An uncomfortable silence settled over them.  The air stilled, long, preserving an emotional tenor.  The sound of her breathing distracted him, wary, the taste of her still filling his mouth.  Being this close was unendurable, and it was only prone to get worse.    

Buffy finally shuffled, tearing her eyes from his, offering a nod of concession as she began her retreat.  It wasn't over.  Such things were never over.  She paused once more, inches from the threshold.  When she spoke again, her tears were not betrayed by her voice.  It was business, and she would treat it as such.  "If you're here to help us, then come to the Magic Box tomorrow.  We'll need everyone there, and I'll make sure no one…tries to…"

"I'll be there."  A hard promise, but he would not take it back.  "I'll come with Ripper.  We need to…it's all about to start, luv.  No matter what, I'll be here till it's over or I'm even more dead than usual."  He attempted and failed to smile.  "Couldn't keep me away."        

"Then we're finished here."  The door cracked open and she was gone before he heard her farewell.  "Goodnight."

Three seconds ticked by—then he fell to his knees, unable to contain the aching swell in his chest.  It was good to cry.  Cold tears rolled against colder skin. Had he maintained any reserve, he would have heard a voice outside his door—an outburst that rivaled his own.  

*~*~*

The minute she entered the graveyard, Willow's chest constricted and she drew in a deep, desperate breath.  It was as though someone had seized her lungs and abruptly cut her air supply.  The quiet air offered free-range hearing over a still landscape.  She had heard Buffy cry enough to recognize the sound of her pain.

However, before she could reach the scene, the Slayer raced passed her, hand over her mouth.  They shared a fleeting glance, then she was gone—bolting for the shadows, a place the Witch dared not follow.  Her arms rumbled with emotion and threatened to drop the sack of groceries—namely blood and Wheatabix—she was delivering on Giles's behalf. The wealth of impassioned vibes perturbing the night made her want to sink to her knees, but she forced herself ahead.  If Buffy were so disturbed, it was safe to assume Spike was a mess.

Her stomach twisted in concern.  His state the previous night was heart-rendering.  True, it had improved as they progressed, but he was still miles away from self-reconciliation.  It was unwise to leave him alone.

A darker twinge rose—unbidden—to mind.  If Buffy had said something to send him back, she didn't know what she would do, but it wouldn't be pretty.

As Willow neared the crypt Giles had indicated, her obstinacy diminished.  Without warning, she burst through the entrance, dropping the sack of goodies dead where she stood.

"Oh God!" she cried, rushing to the crumpled vampire's side.  Sharp jolts of pain shot up rapidly numbing legs.  Spike curled into her embrace immediately, seeking her out, clutching to her with startling need.

"What happened?" she demanded, anger, unstoppable, seeping into her voice.  "What did she do?"    

For long minutes, harsh sobs were her only reply.  And she sat there with endearing patience, rocking him to some unforeseen haven, breaking just at the feel of him.  Finally, drawing in a raspy breath, he gathered control and attempted to speak.  "She forgave me," he gasped.  He might have said something else, but she couldn't hear beyond sobbing growls and tremors.  Minutes passed before he regained authority, calming slowly until he was just a cold armful, rocking back and forth in her hold.

Timidly, mindful of a reprieve, Willow planted a motherly kiss on his forehead, drawing away blond strands of hair.  "She what?"

A long pause.  She thought he might have cried himself to sleep, but he stirred in time, heaving a sigh.  "Not in so many words," he retorted groggily.  "Didn't let 'er.  Couldn't.  But, Jesus, Red…if she ever does say it…" Tears were welling in his eyes once more, and his arms tightened around her.  "She can't, luv.  Can't ever let her forgive."  At last he lifted his head, breaking her heart in two.  "I think it would kill me."  

Willow's eyes watered and she struggled to find words.  There was so much to say, so many empty promises to make.  She wanted to tell him that it would only be hard for a little while, that eventually things would brighten, and forgiveness was the answer to life's qualms.  Yes, it hurt like hell, but it was what he needed and deserved.  All anyone could hope for.  Love from the person he hurt the most, because honestly, a pardon of that magnitude could not be founded on a heart filled with hate.  She knew.  She had seen forgiveness for things so awful it made her ache inside.  The same reason Xander, Giles and the rest forgave her.  The same reason Spike had forgiven Buffy for so many wrongdoings.  The very reason the Slayer nearly forgave him tonight.

However, those words wouldn't come.  Not now.  Not now when it would break him.  So she sat in silence, holding the healing vampire long after sleep claimed him, long into the night.  For all the sensibility in the world, she couldn't bring it within herself to leave him alone.


	14. Revelations

**Chapter Thirteen**

The night passed slowly and brought with it a slower morning.  Gratuitous activities satisfied fleeting curiosity, but there was no force great enough to drag her thoughts away from the heart of the crypt.  Her encounter with Spike had rendered her evening sleepless, those aspects of normality filled with nightmares of mimicking nature.  Whatever she did, her mind wandered to the words he had spoken, the looks he had issued.  The familiar and yet oh-so-different feel of his lips against hers.  Buffy's motivation for their kiss remained unexplained and mostly ignored.  She thought it best not to think of it.  A clumsy, spontaneous temptation.  It hadn't made anything better.

Another rendezvous that afternoon at the Magic Box.  Buffy arrived an hour early, strung on stress and kept from a depression of sleep only by the wonders of coffee and diet soda.  Her personal life was too complex now to deal with another apocalypse, and with as much as her priorities should be settled, she couldn't stray from the peroxide vampire's presence.

He said he would leave after this was all over.  It was what she wanted.  It was best for everyone.  It made her ache every time she considered what she would be losing—again.

Then of course, there was that debate of what exactly she _would _lose.  After last night, she was anything but certain.

The Scoobies would arrive soon.  It was still a while till sunset.  Angel wouldn't show his face for some time, likely after everyone had gathered and discussed.  Though he was just as capable of navigation during day lit hours, it was Spike's cold habit—not his.  

One of their many distinctions.

If anything, Giles would be on time.  And a vampire would be with him.

Buffy exhaled a trembling breath, ineffectually ignoring the wealth of questions that tightened her stomach into knots.  How would she look at him?  Who would she see?  There was no denying that the vampire she knew was gone, leaving behind only a glimmer of his former confident swagger.  How much had changed exactly?  What _had happened?_

She was at a loss for what to think or feel.  After everything passed between them, everything that had happened, she didn't know how to approach him.  Talk to him.  Their last exchange burned the need for reparation in her lungs, stronger than it had been before.  Stronger than ever.

After seeing him like that, she needed to apologize with a thousand times the impact.  Needed to let him know that there was no need for this hurtful self-punishment.  Needed to _forgive _and be _forgiven._

She needed him to know.

The bell over the door announced a new arrival, and she looked up in time to see two familiar faces push through the entry—both on either side of a human-shaped blanket.  When all respective presences were acknowledged, the air thickened in tension.  Giles cleared his throat and helped Spike further inside, murmuring a quiet hello.  Buffy looked to Willow and her heart broke.  Never before had she seen her friend so thoroughly torn.  Loyalties were split in two, and she didn't know who possessed the larger half.

That thought terrified her.

As soon as the blanket was removed, she huffed a breath of release.  Spike didn't so much as look at her—his frontage all business.  Instead, he shook his head and glanced around, familiarizing himself with the layout though the reminder was likely unnecessary, and finally bolted for the books.  "You think that's it, then?" he asked Giles, who traded uncomfortable glances between his vampiric colleague and the Slayer.  No reply was issued or really expected.  

"Makes sense, mate," Spike continued, moving back, flipping through a volume that hadn't seen clean air in several years.  He didn't react to the dust.  "That chap I saw attacking Nibblet the other night, the blood on 'im was as black as I've seen.  Appears black in the moonlight an' all, but I know the difference.  'Sides, after so many years, this Master bloke has given so many bleedin' clues.  We shoulda caught on back home."  The Watcher and Willow regarded him oddly—uneasily.  When he could no longer avoid her, Spike glanced up and nodded.  "Buffy," he acknowledged before returning his attention to the matter at hand.

She nodded but didn't reply.  There were no words.

"This wasn't impulsive," he went on, turning the text so Giles could see.  "Black to start the darkness.  The sodding beginning.  This guy looks to be a fanatic for sigma hocus-pocus.  He's been teasin' us these last years.  Waitin' for us to catch on, all the while tossing random Revelation demons to distract you—"  He tossed a fleeting glance in her direction, "—'an laughing about it all the way."

The Watcher frowned, flipping through the pages.  Seeing him behind the game when any form of research was concerned did more than unnerve her.  Giles was supposed to always have all the answers.  "I don't see anything about black blood," he replied finally.  "We've gone through this, Wi…" He looked up, a deer-caught-in-headlights glance that she didn't pay attention to.  "Spike.  We've been through every book prophecy has to offer."

"Read between the sodding lines, Ripper." An aggravated vampire moved to look over his shoulder, pointing at a passage.  "See.  Looky.  'And the dark times will come with the second arising.  And everything he touches will be tainted.  And as the time grows nearer, those who fight will fall.  Those who fall will die.'"  Violently, he commanded Buffy's eyes.  "Not all your vamps have bled blackness, have they?"

"No…" She was still too startled seeing Spike in research mode to absorb the potency of his words.  A patient pause, and finally his gaze softened.  She shook her head with a blink.  "No.  Just some."

That was all he said to her.  Flashing his attention back to Giles, he indicated the text with another firm point.  "There.  You see?  Prat's been feedin' for years.  Gettin' his strength together.  Everyone he sires is tainted.  Makes 'em bleed his bloody blackness."

"Say that five times fast," Willow offered pointlessly.  Everyone looked at her questioningly and she shrugged.  "Sorry.  Thought we could use some comic relief."

Spike grinned at her fondly, shaking his head before looking back to the book.  "An' sounds like he's been a busy ponce—getting as many as possible," he said, unhampered in lecture.  An indiscernible flash blazed through his eyes as the Watcher's face fell with comprehension.  The vampire growled and began an aggressive pace from one wall to the other.  "Been 'ere the whole bloody time.  Here!"  He indicated the Magic Box with expressively wide arms.  "I'm such an idiot.  Shoulda seen, shoulda—"

"It took knowing about the prophecy to understand," Giles said at last.  His skin had paled and his body was quivering.  "If we had seen it before, we never would have made the association.  Not without the Council books."  Spike slowed in stride as outrage calmed, nodding mutely.

"Either way," the Watcher continued, "you were right to pursue research.  None of us would have known had…" With an emotional pause, he met Buffy's eyes.  "And you would never have seen it coming.  I…"

Everyone looked to Spike, who shuffled in discomfort.  "Now," he said, tone considerably softer.  "That's not fully right.  You woulda seen it.  It's what you do, Ripper.  You—"

"I never would have gotten those books.  That was you."

The vampire scoffed.  It surprised Buffy to see him shy from praise, especially if it was deserved.  He refused to meet her inquiring eyes.  "They would've sent 'em along as soon as things started going wonky."

"The point—"

"Right.  I got your point."  He looked to Willow, who offered a slight smile.  "Got it good."

"Spike to save the day!" she cheered humorlessly, earning another wry glance from every direction.  "All right, all right.  Enough with the comic relief.  I give.  Just a thought."

"Right, Red," he retorted with a snort.  "I'm just…lucky shot, that's all it was.  Bloody Council.  I'm just annoying git who can't keep his mouth shut.  After a hundred an' thirty some-odd years, it's certain to do me some good."

The Watcher nodded in agreement.  "Can't argue with that.  William the Blabbering Bloody."

Spike snickered.  "William Ripper II."

"First one's better.  More accurate."

"Ponce."  He was grinning.  "Who says you get to make up nicknames?"

There was familiarity between them.  It was as though he was a different person altogether.  Everything was there—pieced together for her.  At her scrutiny, Spike became unwittingly self-conscious.  Stripped and exposed.  She saw…

Willow suddenly cleared her throat and moved forward, ushering the vampire with her into a protective corner.  "Here they come," she warned.  "Xander and Dawn.  I don't think they'll…you know, give you too much trouble.  Both Buffy and I laid down the law pretty well the last time."

"Yeah, you told me."  The look on his face betrayed him.  Buffy had never seen him so self-aware.  "Don't want to see Nibblet.  Harris I can handle, but—"

Willow was acting suspiciously delicate with him.  With as much as they mentioned each other in passing conversation, it occurred to the Slayer that she had never played witness to one of their exchanges.  One would assume they were life-long friends that shared sibling-related affection.  "Don't worry about Dawnie," she assured him.  "What she says, she doesn't mean.  Like yesterday, she said something…bad.  But I could tell—she cares so much for you."

"Shouldn't."  It was barely a whisper.  "Don't defend her, pet, or try to excuse her.  Whatever she dishes can't 'urt me.  Not—"

"Can't lie to me, Mister," Willow retorted with a stern 'yeah right' expression, stepping aside and silencing as the entryway opened.  They shared a quick glance.

Perhaps it was the mood, but Buffy couldn't help a rush of the same anxiety, as well as the desire to preserve Spike's feelings.  An odd sensation.  It awed her that he could act like nothing had changed when she could not think of anything else.  Their brief glances were sharp and painful.  She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming her fill of unvoiced apology before he could stop her again.  

"Hey guys!" Dawn said chirpily.  She carried a shopping bag that dropped from her arms, though it was impossible to detect whether the display was in ode to the weight or the pair of eyes to which her gaze was magnetically drawn.  Xander's hand came up to grasp her shoulder.  "Spike," she acknowledged emotionlessly.

"Afternoon, Bit," he returned with a nod.  "An' Harris."

"Spike."  There was no front of feeling behind his tone.  "Nice of you to show up."

"Yeh," the vampire agreed.  "Figure'd it might be useful."

"Spike has discovered something rather disturbing," Giles interrupted, stepping forward.  "This prophecy we researched evidently commenced some time ago.  Your vampires that excreted black blood were sired by the uprising Master."  The announcement stole whatever mocking retort had perched on Xander's lips.  "He has been gaining power since after I brought Willow back from London.  I fear he would have arisen without warning had we not decoded the books.  It would have been far too late."

Spike sighed and backed further into his corner.  If anyone noticed the chumminess between himself and Willow, they declined comment.

"This vampire is of an older order than time," the Watcher continued.  "He makes endless ancient references and resorts to imitation of biblical text.  It's mocking in that sense.  A deity's act to throw you off his scent."

"I dreamed about him," Buffy said softly.

The room fell still.

Xander retracted his hand from Dawn's shoulder, stepping forward.  "And we're just hearing about this now because…?"

She looked fleetingly to Spike, who regarded her with wide-eyed concern.  "It slipped my mind."

"What happened?"

"Well…ummm…" She sighed.  "It started off as…something else.  Then everything switched to the Master…almost everything.  It might not even be a Slayer dream.  The entire thing was sorta inconsistent."

A frown creased Giles's brow.  "Tell us.  We should never take your visions for granted.  You know that."

Buffy wasn't about to share all the details of her subconscious, but she knew Spike understood what it entailed for the way her eyes wouldn't leave his.  Whether the result was intentional or not, she wasn't sure.  But regardless, he knew.  His features contorted in grief, but the affect was fleeting.  He wasn't about to let Xander see his misplacement.  

The Watcher was exhibiting several uncharacteristic signs of impatience.  Emphatically, he stepped forward.  "What did the Master do, Buffy?"

She shook her head clear, blinking furiously.  "He killed…then he bit me.  Said something…Latin, I think.  'Vae…vae puto deus fio.'  That's it.  And that was the end."

A beat passed before the vampire and Giles simultaneously came forward.  It was impossible to decipher who first yelled, "Bloody hell!" but she was sure they weren't in unison.

"Not good," Spike grumbled.  He was pacing again.  "That's not bloody good!"

"What?!"  Panic shot spurts up her insides.  "I mean, I gathered it wasn't all birds chirping and daffodils, but what does it mean?  Someone?"

The vampire exhaled vibrantly, stopped and looked at her.  He would give her honesty, even when it pained her.  Never did he shy from what she needed to hear.  "It means the baddie's comin' for you, and he's lookin' to be a bloody god."

"W-well, we already knew that, right?"  Dawn offered, bravado betrayed by a quaking voice.  In seconds, her eyes had gone as wide as saucers.  "I mean, no extra badness?"

"Oh, there's plenty of badness," Spike retorted, looking at her for the first time with indifference.  "There's a whole walloping load.  And it's just itchin' to hit."  Fiercely, he turned his gaze to Buffy.  "Chap's gonna get most of his power from you, I'm guessin'.  That phrase, it means 'Bugger help me, I'm turning into a god,' only more poetic.  Damnation an' all that in one package."

Xander's prejudice was vacating his esteem with every lingering beat.  Studiously, he looked to the vampire, eyes wide and questioning.  "But we've stopped this sort of thing before," he said.  Buffy didn't know if he was trying to convince the group or himself, and at the minute, it didn't seem to matter.  "And I don't just mean before, I mean like every other day."

"Master's different than all that," Spike replied.  "Angelus knew more about the last one than I did.  He was all about those soddin' prophecies and rituals.  It was never my thing.  Old git through a bleedin' temper tantrum when the poor chap got his soul back." He paused meaningfully in offering of comment, continuing when no voice rose.  "Hell god's a bitch to put up with, I know, but she's no brassed off vampire of the oldest order.  What it boils down to is the order of what this time is set for.  You lot have seen your fair share.  More than you rightly should.  And this one's been festerin' for some time now.  What vamps you all 'ave killed won't 'mount to much in the long run.  He'll have what he wants an' how much by the time he aims to strike."  

_"It's the end of the world as we know it,"_ Xander sang miserably.  

"Nix the comic relief," Willow offered when he looked aghast at the irritated gazes aimed from all directions.  "I've already tried that."   

Voices mended into one magnanimous tenor, carrying on conversation that Buffy was no longer following.  The breaths heaving from her body were becoming tight—constrictive, as though each was closer to her last.  Her eyes met Spike's and held, whispering strands of unspoken understanding.  It was too hard—too hard to focus on the very real prospect that her life might end—again—all the while trying to delve passed the complex layers of her personal life.  In that, she realized Giles was likely wrong in bringing his working colleague with him for help.  Spike's presence _was_ distracting her.  Briefly, she wished he had arrived the way she remembered him.  At least she knew how to respond.  Confident and ballsy, making barbs at her friend's inconsistencies and mocking goodwill while trying, however insincerely, to prove that he had it within him to do the same.  This New and Improved Spike was too confusing, too complex.  He researched and he cared and he was helping for the betterment of the world, not because of her.  Not _just _because of her.  

Exhaling deeply, she rose to her feet, eyes still trained on him.  Talking continued around her, but she didn't care.  Her question had one objective for its answer.  "When will it happen?" she asked.  

Everyone grew still, suddenly fixated on the exchange.  She twitched uncomfortably but did not waver in resilience, refusing to look away.  Their lives might as well be a soap opera—everyone had to see what happened.

"When it's the ten year birthday of the past Master's death," Spike replied, obviously shaken.  "He'll come and he'll wait and he'll do really bad things.  You'll fight, and if everythin' goes to prophecy, he'll best you and the world'll be his playground till the next one stops 'im.  But even that might be in a hundred years or more."

Buffy pursed her lips and nodded.  "Wow.  A prophecy telling me I'm going to die.  Knew it was that time of the month."  A pause as she bit her lip, thinking.  "Then I guess I got a date for the prom.  Who says you can't go back to high school?"

"Prom's on a different day every year," Dawn reminded her.

"And the Master will likely attack you when you don't expect it," Giles added unhelpfully.  He looked miserable.  

Buffy snickered.  "Yeah.  Like I won't be going around all day _not _expecting him to pop around every corner?"  

"I won't let it happen," Spike offered softly.  "Not while I'm 'ere.  He wants a bad to mess with, let it be me.  One of us prats'll go into the soddin' earth, and I'll be bloody damned sure I'm not that prat."  Then, before anyone could venture a word, he grabbed his blanket and raced out of the shop, not noticing the sun had set.  He nearly knocked Angel aside in haste, ignoring the bewildered gazes burning into his back.

An uncomfortable silence was left in his place.

"I take it I missed something," the new arrival remarked.

No one voiced a reply.  Buffy barely acknowledged his entrance.  Thoughts were colliding in sorrow and confusion.  The dream she had the other night clawed at her insides, and immediately she jittered in concern.  He knew, of course.  Even if the others didn't, he knew what she wasn't saying.  Again, the horrible image flashed before her eyes, a visage of Spike combusting into dust.  She fought her feet to obey and stay planted, allowing her better senses to convince her that he would be all right. 

"He's just upset," Willow said softly, speaking to everyone though she was looking at Buffy.  It was reassurance, cornered with the same conflict, and she was astonished at the veiled realization pouring through her friend's guise.  The notion of acknowledged shared concern had shaken her in some way; the words she spoke now calming, but doing little to alleviate the twinge that whispered that the Slayer should follow the disturbed vampire.  With a sigh and a sad smile of displacement, the Witch concluded, "Can't really do much damage tonight.  Besides, the Master hasn't arisen yet."   

"Is it just me," Xander said a beat later, "or has Spike gone ooper creepy with being the new 'know-it-all' guy?"  He then looked to the newest vampiric addition and waved when he saw no one else would.  "Hey Angel.  Guess what?  The world's gonna end…again."

The Watcher groaned lightly and turned his attention back to the books.

Ignoring the welcome, Angel looked instead to Buffy and took several heady steps forward.  "Why did Spike leave?"  There was no hint of indictment, though she couldn't help but feel accused.     

"Presumably to get himself killed," Dawn replied.  "Won't have any luck tonight, though."  The previously harsh coldness had vacated her tone, perhaps permanently, and she was back to sounding beaten and torn between loyalties.  She looked desperately to her sister.  "E-even so, you won't let him, will you?"

"Don't worry," Willow said softly.  "He's just going to vent.  You know how he gets."  The last rang unconvincingly.  As of the late, no one, save Giles, really knew how he got when he was upset.  "Probably kill a few vamps then hit the hay.  Or go to Willy's for some blood."

The Watcher looked up and frowned.  "Did he eat what I gave you last night?"

"Yeah.  Fell asleep then woke up and scarfed it down, then fell back asleep."  She made a face.  "It was kinda gross."

There was a chuckle, familiar and reassured.  "That sounds about right."

"You stayed with him last night?" Buffy asked.  She didn't know whether to feel relieved or invidious.  Their growing closeness was an area of relief and jealousy.  Though she had Spike had had a fair share of heart-to-hearts in the past, she received the notion that he had never opened up to anyone as he did with Willow.

Closeness with Spike was something she told herself she never wanted.  Now it was what she craved more than ever.

"Yeah.  Well, not all night.  Just until I knew he was…you know…" The Witch looked down.  "Okay."  

"Buffy," Angel said softly, advancing a few more paces.  "Can we talk in private?"

For the briefest instant, she thought he might have regressed to the mindset displayed the other night, but his eyes told a different story.  With a hesitant nod, she heaved a breath and followed him into the back, leaving everyone to bask in uncertain aftermath.

When she caught up with him, the dimness of the room took her by surprise.  She had never before noticed how quickly the sun set.  He did not seem impartial to the darkness, so she did not offer to abolish it.  Light was not needed here.

"What has Giles found out?" he asked softly.  Small talk.  He hadn't brought her back here to discuss matters that were of everyone's concern.  

"Spike found out, not Giles," she answered dutifully.  "You woulda been surprised.  He saw beyond the text.  It's bad…this thing.  The Master."

"I take it you found Spike last night?"

A notable pause.  "Yes."

"And?"

She shrugged.  "And we talked."

Angel smiled lightly at her evasiveness.  "Buf—"

"Is there a point to my being back here, or are you just going to jump start another lecture?" When his eyes widened in invitation, she growled her annoyance and turned away.  "I'm so tired of this!  Everyone is being secretive!  I mean, what you told me at the Bronze the other night…it was wrong but rational.  It was what I expected from you.  I'm used to it.  But now…"

He frowned and stepped forward.  "You're upset because I'm not lecturing you?"

Buffy stopped, frustrated, shaking her head sternly.  "No.  I'm upset because Spike's back in town.  It's finally getting to me.  You want God's truth—there it is.  I'm upset because everyone I trusted suddenly has this colossal secret that no one is sharing.  Everyone he's talked to…even you!  Especially you!  You went on and on…and on and on about how demons never change.  How Spike _never changes.  _Then what?  One chat with him put your entire belief system out of whack and suddenly he's not such a bad guy?"

The way he looked at her suggested that she had finally lost it.  A sort of 'stop and listen to yourself' regard.  But Buffy was lost in her spiel, insides reaping of secreted knowledge, denied in logicality again and again.  Something scratched beneath her subconscious.  Something known.

And Angel understood.  Blinking in recognition, he nodded and stepped back, excreting an uncharacteristic breath.  It almost went unnoticed until she remembered whom she was with, and she immediately regretted the lack of illumination.  She knew he could see her eyes and hated being rendering read when she was so far behind, herself.

At that minute, he looked at a loss for words, at a complete loss at what to say.  Though she couldn't see much, there was definite disguise in the works.  Taunting.  And despite how she tried, she wouldn't get it out of them.  Any of them.

"I think," he said finally, "that I was wrong about something."

"Someone alert the press," Buffy stingingly retorted.   

He ignored her, stepping forward.  "I saw Spike going to your house, and I think I was ready to kill him, despite what you said.  Or at least thrash him around a bit.  My demon was itching for a fight.  I know him, much better than you or Giles or anyone can claim to.  You didn't spend a century with his annoying antics.  What stopped me was something sincere.  I've never seen Spike express a sincere feeling before.  With him, it was always about killing, eating, and screwing.  You know that enough."  When she nodded her reluctant confirmation, he continued.  "He did change.  He…wanted something that was impossible for him to want, even more impossible for him to have."

"Me?"

"No.  Well, yes, but not just you."  Angel was edging dangerously close to revealing the secret of the century, and unfortunately, he recognized it the minute she did.  With an aggravating step of retreat, he shook his head, forcing himself down another pathway.  "Do you love him?"

Buffy drew in a sharp breath and looked down, shaken and surprised.  The question mockingly echoed a similar inquiry he made years ago, though with implications she never thought could exist.  There was no time to make up excuses, or tell herself any thought of love was impossible.  Straightforward honesty was what he expected, what he would read her even if her mouth told him otherwise.  "I don't know," she whispered.  "I don't hate him.  I don't…I don't know.  He's so different now.  And too much has happened.  What he did to me…can I trust him?  I want to, but…" Her eyes were drawn home.  "Love doesn't work without trust."

"That's not what you told me."

"When?"

"Long time ago.  Back when you were in high school.  When you—"

"Asked you about Drusilla," she finished for him.  "I remember."

"So you can answer my question, now that trust is out of the way."  Stubborn as always.  She wanted to kick Angel and run but remained stationary, daring him to ask again.  "Do you love him?"

"I don't know.  How can I love something like that?  We hurt each other.  So many times.  How can I love the hurt?  What does it make me?"

"A sadistic monster lover."  The words would have stung had she not noted the lack of maliciousness behind his smile. "And human, Buffy.   I've seen a lot.  In my experience, humans love the wrong people for the wrong reasons."

The passiveness in his voice was so thoroughly Angel that it sent ripples of aggravated adoration through her body, reluctant and most certainly unwanted.  "Why are you so level-headed?  I thought you hated him." 

He shrugged.  "I do.  But I love you, and I…I don't want you to deal with more than what's necessary.  You have too much going on right now to worry about Spike."  A long, reverent pause.  "What are you going to do now?"

Buffy huffed out a breath and brought her hands over her eyes, drawing her hair back tightly in thought.  The answer wasn't long forming—they both knew her intentions long before it was voiced.  "What I do best," she conceded as she turned and paraded for the door.  "Follow the vampire."

Surprisingly, the Magic Box was vacant when she reentered the main room.  Again, she took time to note that it was unexpectedly dark for being so early in the evening.  However, the sky remained clear; she could see through the windows.  No storm clouds on the horizon—just the impending threat of a big awakening.

Buffy sighed and instinctively tightened the duster around her.  Though she had no way of knowing for certain which path the peroxide vampire had taken, she was nearly convinced he would be at the graveyard.  The feral look in his eyes as he left suggested more than the need for protection; it had all happened too rapidly.  One minute he was there and the next he wasn't.

"When in doubt," she murmured to the silence, "follow your tingly."  Doubly checking to make sure she still had a stake or two on her, Buffy sighed once more and started for the entryway.

"It got dark fast," a small voice came from the shadows, stopping her with a start just before she could make her exit.  It was Willow, seated near the cash registers, shrouded in darkness.  

Buffy frowned and turned, heart leaping with surprise.  "Good God, Will!  Trying to give me a stroke?"

"Oh.  Sorry."  Familiar sheepishness inevitably set in.  "I just…I wanted to say someth…where are you going?"

She snickered and rolled her eyes.  "To find Spike, where else?  I need to talk to him."

"Yeah," the Witch agreed.  "I don't mean to keep you—"

"No.  It can wait.  Go ahead."  

There was a heavy intake of breath and she moved from the counter, still not coming entirely into view.  "I just like…realized it after he left.  I saw your face, and I realized what a bum I've been lately.  It's not like I've been angry with you or anything, but it's felt like it."  A heady pause and another sharp breath.  "I was doing all right, Buffy.  I mean, I'm not peachy-keen, no, but I was doing all right.  Better and stuff."

"Willow, if this—"

"No, no.  Let me finish.  When I found him the other night, he was like…everything I am, you know?  Only Spike doesn't hold back when he's feeling oogie.  The whole world knows."  She chuckled dryly.  "Even when the world doesn't care.  I never thought that…I've felt pain.  I mean really hard-core pain.  Pain that's not even mine.  I felt him as soon as he got here.  Like a…a leftover.  He was screaming for someone, Buffy.  And I've been really protective of him ever since."  With another sigh, Willow looked down, escaping her friend's confused gaze.  "So protective that it's started to cloud my judgment.  Tonight was kinda the eye-opener.  That I was being protective for the wrong reasons when I saw how worried about him you were after he left.  And don't you deny it, Missy."

There was no want of denial.  "It was the dream," Buffy whispered.  "I dreamt the Master killed him."

Immediate panic beset her friend's eyes, ineffectually tempered in some attempt for calm.  "Oh…but, you've had dreams like that before, right?  Where you thought someone might die but they didn't?"

"Yeah," she replied softly.  "That's what I keep telling myself."

"And the dream…made you react like that?  I mean, it's not like everyone and their cousin could see, but you…"

"I do care about him, Will!" Buffy snapped.  "I don't know why, or how, but—"

"But you do, you see, and that's my point.  I couldn't.  I couldn't see it.  All of it.  I mean, I knew, but I didn't know."  She looked confused, but shook her head and continued.  "These past few days have been more about me.  Me feeling better about what happened.  Me trying to make amends.  I know what he did was awful.  I mean, really awful, and I don't mean to push you to…you know…not _love _him but, get to the point where you can tell him that everything's all right."

"You weren't pushing me."

The Witch chuckled again humorlessly.  "I was.  Just not very well.  I just thought…if someone like Spike could be forgiven for everything, why not me?"

There was a pregnant pause.  Long, teetering, then Buffy came forward and took her friend into a hug, holding her calm in the darkness.  "You were forgiven," she assured her.  "I know that—"

"No.  No, you don't."  Willow pulled away, drawing an arm to wipe tears from her eyes.  "Forgiveness is a two-way street.  You guys forgave me, sure.  And it hurts like hell because I haven't forgiven myself.  It hurts so much it…I did…" She paused to catch her breath, holding a hand up to signify her need for space.  "I guess it hurts because I didn't really realize until I came home how fortunate I was.  Here, I'd done this really, really bad thing…and you guys were a little weird at first—sure—but things gradually started going back.  We got things fixed.  And here we are.  It takes special people to do that.  To love and forgive like that."  She sniffed.  "And it hurts to think I almost, that I could have…"

"You didn't," the Slayer said firmly.  "We're here now and everything's all right."

"No, not everything.  Not _anything.  _Nothing's ever all right around us, Buffy.  You're confused, hell I'm confused…worried more about making things all right for a vampire because of some serious inner reflection.  And I have miles to go before I've recovered.  But I'm getting there…one step at a time."  Another sigh and her tension finally started to dissipate.  "Oh, wow.  I feel better.  Needed to get that off my chest."

Their hush was reflective and brief, and it occurred to Buffy in those few precious minutes that there was a very real part of Willow that she would never understand.  A part of her where they had once shared everything.  Where the silence lived.  And while her dealings with Spike could be construed as impossible to fully grasp, lest she cast herself down that path of self-destruction, she was relieved there was someone who understood.  Someone for Willow who could touch the part of her that died three years ago.  Someone who might someday be able to bring her back to the space so long ago abandoned.  

"Things got crazy last night," Buffy admitted after a trying pause, knowing instinctively that she would get nothing more from her friend, and it was too painful to press.  "Or at least…hard.  With Spike, I mean.  I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't what I got.  I don't know who I'm talking to anymore, Will.  He's so…"

Willow's eyes widened.  "Oh…he didn't?  I mean, you don't?  …and you still?"  A wave of compassionate understanding washed over her, and when the Slayer flashed a look of undermining confusion, she stepped back and gasped.  "And you still were…oh, wow.  That little worm!  Go.  Go, Buffy.  Find him.  He can't keep avoiding you."

A surge of discovery charged through her trembling form, and she neared, eyes burning with intent.  "What do you know?" she demanded, all sense of reserve vacating her without authority.  "What happened to him?"

"Find him," she replied quickly, a haunting mimic of her intonation the day before.  Only now her irritation had curbed, angled more toward the bleached vampire.  It was a look and tenor Buffy knew well, identifying immediately with one of Willow's top five pet peeves: procrastination.  "He's trying to dodge the issue.  Or you.  You deserve to know—and he needs to be the one to tell you."

Buffy's heart raced, mind unwittingly expanding to dangerous, unexplored terrain.  She was on the edge of something but her will forbade an unguided tour.  A portrait of Blanche Dubois—backing away from the moments of significant recognition for the chance to happily thrive in her fantasy world.  However, she couldn't stay there forever, and the Witch saw.  With a quaking gasp, the Slayer found herself hastily steered to the door.  An unspoken compromise.  Whatever had to be discovered tonight would be with him.  Not here.  Not like this.

"Go," Willow said urgently.    

And before either could offer another word, Buffy was gone.  Tearing through the exit, running toward the pivotal point of her instincts.

All secrets would be revealed tonight.


	15. Unmask

**Chapter Fourteen **

The sky should not be pitch black at 6:10, but it was.  With the impending nature of her tryst looming ahead, Buffy found it soothing to focus on things so blessedly unrelated to what was coming for her.  She had no idea what she was going to say when she found him, but she was certain there would be tears.

And apologies.  If nothing else, tonight had to bring her that sanctified release.  There was so much to discuss.  So much to get behind them.  And she wouldn't let him shoo her away this time.  Pride could not be sacrificed for the sake of comfort.  These adolescent distractions would wind up killing her if she wasn't careful.

As she suspected, he wasn't hard to find.  He looked as he did before he left, save the splattering of blackened essence on his clothing.  The ground beneath him looked a little worse for the wear.  It surprised her that he hadn't paced himself into a trench.

Spike sensed her move toward him, and while he slowed, it was only minimally.  He drew in a breath when he saw her, gesturing an angry hand to the sky.  "Sodding blackness.  Shouldn't be dark this early, luv."

Excreting a sigh, Buffy forced herself to relax, approaching him with deceptive calm.   "You think it has something to do with what's going on?"

"I'd say so.  Far too early for the sun to go to bed.  Not that I'm complainin'.  That blanket's a bloody pain."  At last he stopped, shaking his head.  "But a good number of other vamps will make a hay day out of it.  Nummy people treats everywhere.  Already killed me three of 'em."  He gestured to the stains on his shirt.  "An' more'll come.  Just give 'em time.  I don't like this at all."

She nodded, more to herself.  With all they had discussed in the shop, she didn't feel like treading down the path of 'events to come.'  All more besides, Willow's words rose sharp within her cavity, and she recognized their meaning.  Though Spike appeared composed, he was obviously shaken by her presence, avoiding eye contact and moving about to find a comfortable place away from her.  He had behaved the same upon entering the Magic Box just an hour before.

She wasn't about to dally with small talk.  That was well and good for Angel, but she didn't play those kinds of games.  And up until the recent, her vampiric companion didn't, either.  "Right.  Spike, I didn't come here to—"

"Abandoned the Scooby meetin', did yah?" His gaze was trained on the ground.  "Sorry 'bout the leave.  I was jus'—"

"Don't interrupt me.  I'm tired of this."  That coaxed him to look upward, slightly panicked for the face of things he did not wish to discuss.  It only encouraged her, fueled her voice and put more words in her mouth. "These games…whatever you're trying to hide."  She sighed, looked down, then up again.  "Spike, I know something happened.  It's pretty obvious.  I mean, yeah, I don't know what, but I'm not dense enough to completely miss the signals.  You've changed."

"Demon, pet," he replied slowly, as though she were a child, though there was dread behind his eyes.  "I thought we covered this last night.  I'm a demon.  We don't change.  We never change."

Her eyes narrowed.  "When did you start preaching that crap?"

"Heard it from you a time or two, dinnit I?"

"God.  You pick _now _to start listening to me?"  She saw his amused, fond smile and grew all the more aggravated.  "I'm done.  I was done before we started.  If you wanted me to believe something else—well, too damn bad.  I saw enough last night to know…you're different.  I don't know how, but—"

"Sure you do."  The drastic fall of his voice caught her off guard, and the jesting tease had left his eyes.  "You must.  You wouldn't let me this close to you if you didn't."

"What are you talking about?  I—"

A drastic breath of concession.  "I thought I could run away," Spike whispered, and she felt a rush of relief surge through her.  At last he was going to share.  It hadn't been long, but it felt like years.  She wouldn't allow him leave until she had all the answers.  "From you.  From what I did.  I made it all the way to England, and even then, there you were.  Following me.  I started workin' with Ripper to…to try to make things right.  I'm drawn to you, luv.  It took realizin' that I hadn't changed to change. Took…doing…" He swallowed audibly, taking a seat atop a headstone, "what I did.  An' what I did…I was so angry.  I'd been kicked and beaten—rightly so, an' all that.  An' I've been angrier than hell.  Wanted to kill you a time or a thousand, but I never, _never _thought I'd get so…out of control.  Wouldn't 'ave hurt you for the world, pet."

Tears clouded her vision, unwanted images springing grudgingly to mind.  "But you did," she whispered, moving to sit beside him.  Neither could afford to look at the other.  "You hurt me so much."

"Didn't mean to," he repeated, staring at a patch of darkened grass beside his boots.  "Luv, if you never believe anything else, believe that.  Can't say 'I'm sorry.'  'Sorry' doesn't cover it.  They've'n't got a word enough for it."

"I don't know if I can do this," she confessed, shaking her head.  "I don't even know you even more.  How can you…after everything that's happened.  I've told—or _tried_ to tell you—that I'm sorry for what _I _did, and—"

"Don't," he warned.  "Please don't."

"Well, it's the goddamned truth!"  Buffy jumped up, angry suddenly.  She needed to be where she could see him.  Stubborn eyes were fixed still on the grass, magnetically pulling his head with them.  "It's so hard for me to say, and your new little righteous act isn't helping.  Do you think I like this?  I hate it!  I hate being sorry.  I hate knowing that I was wrong.  You're…evil, and you always will be, and I'm sorry for what _I _did to _you.  _So sorry it makes me hurt inside.  All the while you sit there and tell me that you can't be for what you did to me.  And I should hate you!  I want to…" When she trailed off she was rewarded with his gaze, half-imploring her to continue, half-begging her to stop.  "If you didn't mean to, then why would you _ever?"  _A drop of water rolled lazily down her cheek.  "Why would you…hurt me so…so much?"

Spike's breaths were coming rugged and harsh.  It was obvious he wished himself miles away.  Again he dropped his head, and she knew he was close to tears.  That was another difference.  A Spike that wept openly—without hindrance.  She watched his muscles constrict, hands digging into the stone beneath him.  Dust rattled beneath unpolished nails.  It would crack after a minute.  "I couldn't hear," he whispered at last, refusing to look at her.       

A last pitch of dying anger blazed through her, commanding Buffy's better senses, tackling her vocals and spieling through a throat dry with tearless nights and coated in thick regret.  "What do you mean, you 'couldn't hear'?  I was screaming at the top of my lungs!  By God, I'd never screamed so much in my life.  Or did the kicking and thrashing and pleading turn you on, you sick—"

"All I saw was you."  With heart-breaking simplicity, Spike looked up.  His eyes reflected years' worth of love she had never had the right to doubt.  He had loved her as faithfully as any man ever could have, even when she tried to make it impossible.  "And it consumed me."

Night nestled around them.  Not much time had passed, but already it felt like hours.  With a quivering breath, she nodded at last and took a seat beside him once more, tugging his duster tighter around her.  It was subconscious habit; the coat was always wound around her, as though she feared prying hands would snatch it from her.  

"So what happens now?" she ventured to ask, unsure if she was prepared for the answer.        

"We beat the big evil," he replied, rolling his shoulders and exhaling deeply.  "Do what Ripper and I came 'ere to do.  Then I go back to London, look up things in dusty old books, and wait fer whatever baddie decides to attack you next."  A sad, humorless grin spread across his lips.  "Won't be back, luv.  He was wrong to bring me.  Alls I've done is cause you more trouble than you oughta be foolin' with right now.  You got the end of the world to think about, and 'stead you're sittin' here with me, bringin' up all the achies of the past."

Buffy pursed her lips, reaching out to clasp his hand where it remained untended in his lap.  She watched his eyes close tightly at the contact, drinking her in as she admired the long-missed feel of cold skin beneath hers.  This touch was more intimate than what they had shared in the past; even that spine-tingling kiss she had welcomed him home with the night before.  Just sitting here with him, hand in his, enjoying the premature night.  

The moments of peace they enjoyed together in the past were numbered.  Never had she let him get so terribly close.  He could be inside her and still distanced for her unwillingness to let him in.  She had always revoked his attempts to express tenderness.  The courtly warmth that burned his eyes as he brushed strands of hair away from her face during the throes of her release.  The way he could spend hours caressing her skin when he thought she was asleep, as though trying to convince himself that she was actually there.  The touches he would steal when she was awake; a sweep of her cheek, a gentlemanly kiss atop her head, an affectionate nibble at her neck.  All touches she craved though rejected.  Always too afraid to let him close.  Afraid of what that made her.

Sitting with him now, holding his hand, giving him a taste of the gentleness he had so craved when in her presence, she didn't know if she was hurting him or making things better, and for the moment, she didn't care.  She had missed this far too much to make judgment calls.

And then it hit her with all the tragic simplicity the world had to offer.  The cindered burnings of a broken heart.  A sealed doorway at the end of her mind suddenly unlocked and released a blessed string of closeted knowledge she hadn't before allowed herself to grasp.  It engulfed her.  Painful realization—hard to know and harder to accept.  But there was no denying the truth; the truth she had known for so long.  The truth she ignored for fear of her fate, the same truth she could no longer conceal for all its excruciating liberation.  She loved him.  She loved him with all her heart and soul, and nothing: no birthright, no ancient siring, no colorful past filled with hurt and angst could ever wheedle that away.  She could shed a thousand tears, feel her heart stabbed with a thousand knives, and tell him stop a thousand times, but illumination was there, and try as she might, it would never go away.  

Unconsciously, her hand squeezed his tighter as understanding washed over, and she felt him reciprocate instinctually at first, then withdraw just as quickly.  Spike looked sharply to her as the first tears dropped from her eyes.  She could not return his gaze, could not bring herself to look him at him for the drive of devastating recognition.  

"I bring up the past for a reason," she said softly.  "It reminds me of all the things I've done.  The good and the…very bad.  And every time I think of you, I know that I…I was too selfish.  You gave me the fire back, even though it was what I asked for, and I hated you because of it."  Buffy paused meaningfully, drawing in a breath.  The next would be the hardest to confess, but she had to.  She had to now before she lost her nerve.  It wasn't the first and the last, though something told her the will to speak would leave forever if the words weren't voiced.  Now and finally.  If she didn't push through those final barriers and signify the first true step into adulthood, this conversation, this night would haunt her forever.  No matter how painful admissions were made.  "I loved you then…and I still do…and I hate myself for it.  I shouldn't…love you, I mean.  After everything you've done, what I've done to you.  You hurt me so much, but I still love you."  The vampire was breathing rapidly, studying her as his eyes glossed over in tears.  That wouldn't do.  If he cried, she would join and never recover.  Her foot stomped as she yielded to frustration.  _"Why?  _It shouldn't be like this.  And I hate it!  I hate that I can't stop.  I hate—" And she broke down, sobbing into her hands, unaware that the presence beside her had moved away, fallen to the ground beside her, incapable of stopping a similar outburst.

And there they were.  Star-crossed, lost, and sobbing over the same words, feet away from each other, unable to offer empty comfort.  Confessions seethed the night air like a disease, causing more pain than relief, though it was difficult to decipher whom it hit the hardest.  Finally, Spike struggled to his feet, wiping his eyes angrily.  His look shot daggers.

"No, no!" he screamed.  "Bloody wrong, Slayer!  This whole thing, so wrong!  Have you completely lost your marbles?  You can't love me.  You don't.  I won't let you.  I'm a dark, evil son of a bitch, and I bloody tried to rape you!   I never did one good thing but finally leave you alone.  Went across the sodding ocean to get away.  To go somewhere where I couldn't hurt you.  Ever again."  At her puzzled look, he paused emphatically.  "You told me you could never love me…I won't let you go back on that now."  

"I'm sorry, _let _me?!"  Buffy rose, outraged, and stalked forward, unable to stop the tears that flowed steadily still.  They were inches apart.  "You think this is fun for me?  You think I _want _to love you?  I hate it!  But I can't stop.  I pushed you away so much.  I wanted you gone, and it killed me when you left.  But you came back."  She paused, voice overwhelmed with emotion.  The tears cascading down his face nearly did her in.  "You came back…" she repeated, as though trying to convince herself.  And she couldn't stand the space between them.  With a sob, she lurched forward, trapping his mouth with hers; wrestling kisses away until he groaned his defeat.  His mouth was cold and fiery at the same time, his heated fervor surrendering to her completely.  Then they were dancing, lost in the abyss of each other.  Her hands were everywhere, studying every contour of his face, the softness of his hair, the firmness of his chest, pressed so heavily against hers.  The weight of his arm crushed her against him, his kisses eager and responsive, tears flowing still for the inability to stop.     

Buffy only pulled back when she had to breathe, sobbing still onto his shirt as her head found purchase on his shoulder, too caught up in the embrace to notice the way his arms trembled as he held her.  The way he ostensibly couldn't stop his tears.  Spike rarely covered his emotions in front of her, but he always seemed to have control.  Right now he didn't, and it frightened her.  

Then he rumbled against her chest, and she smiled lightly at the feel.  The breaths he took feathered her ear, his wonderfully deep voice revealing his displacement.  "How?"  he asked softly, unable to stop himself from tugging at her earlobe with his teeth.  

"I don't know," she replied honestly.  "What does this make me?"

"Lost.  We're all bloody lost."  He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled.  The arms that held her were still quivering.  

"Can you forgive me?"

At that, he went rigid—statuesque.  Buffy felt she was trapped in a stone, held tightly against him still, but eliciting no movement, no reaction of any kind.  Then, without warning, he tore from her and resumed pacing.  The expression on his face suggested anger, but he was not angry.  

"Forgive you?" Spike finally spat, eyes glistening.  "How can you ask me that?  How can…I could have…when I think of what I did—"    

"Didn't.  You didn't do it."

"I could have!"

"But you didn't!"  This was growing tiresome.  "Doesn't that mean anything?  It'll always hurt, but it's over with.  In the past.  We can't have a do over.  I forgave you a long time ago, and—"

Her words were abruptly interrupted by a sharp outcry of pain.  In horror, she watched as Spike burst into tears, falling to his knees and cradling his stomach.  An image of true remorse.  A man forced down the pathway of penance, to find some sort of reparation for a world of misgivings.  And in that moment, in that lasting moment, she saw.  She finally saw.  The vampire.  The man.  The thing that left and never came back.  Spike as she had never known him.  Not hers.  William.  William the Bloody.  There, harvesting Spike's body, speaking Spike's words, loving her with Spike's affection.  But it wasn't Spike. For the longest minute, she couldn't breathe, couldn't blink.  Her feet turned to granite, firm and hard against the ground.   A void grasped her aching soul, and all efforts at a reaction fled her body.  She stood there.  Standing.  Staring.  At William.

When he looked up and saw she understood, his eyes went wide and he struggled to his feet.  The fresh tears cascading down his cheeks glistened in what light the night had to offer.  His breaths started coming heavier, forgetting air was not necessary, studying her, trying to pry away the layers she was concealing.  "Buffy—"

That was all it took.  Feeling coursed through her body with newfound liberation.  Furiously, the Slayer stifled a sob and stepped forward, studied him briefly, then sent him to the ground with a firm blow to the jaw.  "You bastard!" she screamed.  "What did you do?  What did you do?!"

"What I had to," he replied, tears running again.  His back was to her, and he made no move to sit up.  "What I needed to make sure that…never happened again."

"How?"

"Demon in Africa."  He rolled himself over so he could sit, watching her, gauging for a reaction.  But Buffy's face had fallen indifferently, and she was hiding herself again.  "Left that night.  Got me what I wanted…and I've been this way ever since."

Buffy bit her lip to wan another outburst away.  "You…you asked for it?"

"Must've.  It's what I got."  He looked up at her pitifully.  "I had to do somethin', Buffy.  I couldn't…not after what happened.  I couldn't live with that."

"Live?"  she spat bitterly, only there was no venom.  The anger placed there was artificial.  

"I loved you and I 'urt you.  I'm a demon, pet.  Demons are supposed to do bad things.  Evil things.  But they're not supposed to love.  Really love.  And I never thought…killin' you would've been easier."  With that, he struggled to his feet, eyes fixed on a headstone.  He wouldn't look back.  "I couldn't bleedin' take it anymore.  You didn't love me, and I'd just done something terrible.  The guilt 'urt worse then, cause I knew I wasn't supposed to feel it.  I wasn't a man and I wasn't a monster.  I was…nothing."  He sighed and finally looked up.  "Nothin's changed, o'course.  I got myself to Africa, passed a number of nasty tests and was given a jolly prize at the end of it."

"Your soul," she whispered.  The look on her face was distant; covered in remorse and disgust, though surprisingly aimed at herself.    

William smiled sadly.  "Got it for you.  Asked for what you deserve.  An' it's yours.  It'll always be yours."  When their eyes met again, he drew himself away with a hasty breath, shaking his head.  "The first days were the hardest.  Don't even know how I wound up London.  Then Ripper found me, threatened to turn me into a pile of dust, and saw.  And he's…we've been workin' together since."

Buffy pursed her lips, clinched fists quivering as her body threatened to break once more into sobs. "He saw," she repeated.  "And Willow and Angel saw…but I never did.  It was so obvious.  Why didn't I see?"

"Oh, you did, luv," he replied softly.  "You just didn't want to believe it."

"Why?  Why would I—"

"Because you didn't want to love me.  You can't, you know, but you saw after…" William's eyes clouded again.  "I shouldn't've come back," he whispered.  "I never wanted you to know."

At that, she grew angry, but it was fleeting and died without a struggle.  "You didn't…why the hell not?!"

"I wanted you to hate me forever—it's what I deserve.  I knew it would…forgiveness is a hard gig, luv.  And you…you can't.  Can't mean it."

His words reflected Willow's painfully.  The course of self-sacrament was a long and winding road, and he had more than miles to travel.  He had years.  He had an eternity.  And there he was—this thing, this person that had sacrificed perpetuity of remorseless pleasures for the burden of guilt so wholly earned: an act that, in itself, unconsciously repented for every crime he had committed.  A choice.  A request.  Who was he?  There were plenty of shadows remaining to mimic his demon, but he wasn't the man she loved.

Was he?

A lasting look in his eyes satisfied any need for reprisal.  Buffy's eyes welled with tears—tender and sore from her previous outbursts, but similarly incapable of preventing another.  He needed love so desperately, even if he rejected it when offered.  It hurt him to accept forgiveness, love, but he desired it still.  

"I don't know what I mean," she said honestly.  "Why didn't Giles tell me?"

"I asked 'im not to.  I didn't want anyone to know."

"That's why you didn't want to come back?"

William shook his head.  "No.  Well, I s'pose in a way.  It's been hell, just bein' here.  Bein' so close to you.  Livin' with myself, day in, day out.  Thinkin' I'd progressed but knowin' I'm still stuck at the beginning.  I can't stand it, luv.  I can't stand to know I hurt you so much.  I can't take forgiveness, cause I'll never forgive myself.  I'll never accept love.  I can't.  It burns, baby.  An' every time I look at you, touch you.  Feel you near me; all I can see is what I did.  What I tried…" He broke off, tearing his eyes away.  "I didn't hear you that night, but I've heard you every night since.  And it'll follow me forever."

Buffy drew in a breath and held it.  A million thoughts collided into one massive jumble, and she found herself so misplaced that she didn't know where to start deciphering the pieces.  She was too consumed with the thought that Spike—Spike as she knew him—had had it in him to do such a thing.  To willfully initiate himself down the path of recompense.  That he could love her so much.  And now what?  Was he gone forever?  Who stood in his place?  Not Spike, for certain, but someone.  Someone that loved her with the same fervor.  Someone that wouldn't touch her for knowledge of crimes he never committed.  Someone with Spike's knowledge and memories.  Spike's face and body.  Spike's voice and eyes so full of _life_…

Someone who still, despite everything, was not Spike.

Why hadn't Angel been good enough to want his soul?

A man in place of the demon.  It was what she had wanted—told herself she wanted.  Told him she wanted time and time again.  And here he was—more a man than she could have ever thought or dreamt.  Ready to endure an eternity of torment because of her.  

Buffy's eyes clouded with tears once more.  She was at a loss of what to think.  Instantly, William stepped forward and took her face in his hands, though the tremor in his eyes told her it pained him to reach for contact.  A thumb lazily brushed a tear away, and he smiled sadly at her, unable to cease his caresses.  "Ad astra, per aspera, my sweet," he murmured.  

She swallowed audibly, reaching to grasp his wrist, holding his hand there even as she saw the display of tenderness jolt pain through his body.  What had he been putting himself through these last years?  It was unbearable to imagine.  All more besides the incident that inspired his boisterous transformation, he had a good hundred years and more to repent.  The face of everyone he killed.  Every man, woman, and child.  She couldn't begin to imagine the suffering.

She had loved the thing he pushed aside.  Did she love him too?  Were they the same?

Leaning into his touch best she could, Buffy drew in a breath, closing her eyes as twin tears slid down her cheeks.  "Do I disgust you?" she asked.

Predictably, he was taken aback, eyes going wide at first in confusion, then shock that she would ever feel the need to ask.  "What?  Luv, I—"

"You're not him.  You're not the killer who stole your body for a century.  You're not the thing that pushed me to the ground and…tried…" The same thing she loved.  _God, help me._  "I told you…I love him.  The thing.  I love Spike.  I love the thing that you're not."  She wrenched free of his touch and looked at the ground.  "It must disgust you.  It disgusts me.  But I can't…"

"Buffy…" When she refused to glance up, William stepped forward and aggressively seized hold of her shoulders.  Funny how their roles had reversed.  It wasn't too long ago that she had fought to maintain his gaze.  "Buffy, look at me.  I'm only disgusted by what I did to you.  Nothing you could do would ever make me—"

"But you didn't!  It wasn't you!  You wouldn't…"

William growled and shook her once.  Hard.  "I've already gone through this with Ripper.  Long willy time ago, but I did.  Look, luv, I don't know who the bleedin' hell I am.  I got all the touchy feelies ole' Spike left behind.  I got a lot of him in me.  Don't know how much, but I do.  Also got a lot of that poetic ponce in me.  Maybe the balance is what makes my writin' halfway decent nowadays.  I feel bad fo' everythin' he did, but I know better than to think I woulda done it over the same way if I could go back, now.  You though…" Lovingly, he drew her hair away from her eyes.  The gesture blurred her vision with a fresh batch of tears.  "You're the one thing consistency between the likes of 'im and the likes of me.  Well, there's also smokes and _Passions, _but…you're it, ducks.  That's why you sayin' you love me's so bloody painful to hear."  Unable to stop herself, she reached to touch his lower lip, softly, exploratory, and he correspondingly swelled with another outburst.  His arms trembled around her.  The resolve he grasped now would fail him soon—eventually, whether in minutes or hours.  A sigh quaked through his body and he willed his eyes shut.  She could smell the salt of his tears.  "Luv, please…"

"Do you still want me?"

Foolish question.  The evidence was there enough against her.  His eyes flashed open and he answered with intense honesty, "More than ever."  It wasn't a matter he had to consider, though he obviously regretted the inability to shut himself up.  

Buffy drew in a breath, studying his mouth as she neared.  "Do you still love me?"

Another imprudent query.  All it took was looking in his eyes to see.  However, she also recognized that the words were stuck still in his throat.  He wouldn't speak them now.  Similar confessions would lead down a path they could not recover.  Words were only words.  She needed only to look at him if she required a manifest answer.  

"Buffy, I—"

She grasped his forearms that still clutched her shoulders and again brought him down for an impassioned kiss.  The first with William—truly with William.  Fully William.  Unlike the urgency of their previous moments, she took the time to explore him as though she didn't know this mouth so terribly well.  Every stroke, every quaking breath—the hesitance with which he returned her touch, so needy yet so fearful.  The moist taste of his tongue against hers.  At last he surrendered to her, fully surrendered.  With a growl of release, his hold became commanding, crushing her against him as his touch became deprived and possessive.  How long they remained like that, she did not know, but her wretched need for oxygen eventually got the better of her.  Buffy pulled back at last to take a gasp of air, head craned away as his lips unthinkingly explored her chin, her neck, her collarbone, fingers kneading at her shoulders still.  Hungry and demanding.  

Then, unexpectedly, the caresses came to halt, eliciting from her a small noise of complaint.  Buffy found herself the next instant pushed to the ground, a frustrated but notably aroused William resuming his pacing.  Back one, up one—the full journey twice.  He stopped after a minute to look at her. 

"Told you, luv," he murmured with remorse,  "I can't do this again.  I can't play at arms length with you.  I can't…" He sighed meaningfully.  "I can't look at you without remembering…it bloody hurts too much."

"But…" She struggled to her feet, ignoring the dust collecting at her jeans.  "It wasn't—"

"Right.  Suppose it wasn't me.  It was him.  Him who 'urt you, him who you love."  He looked down.  "That makes me nothin' to you.  Again.  A full circle an' still nothing's changed.  Blasted unfair world, innit, Slayer?"

"Spike—"       

"Don't call me that."        

"Then what should I call you?"

The vampire smiled softly.  "Ripper's gotten into the habit of callin' me Will.  S'what the wankers at the library call me.  William Ripper II." A chuckle rippled through his body.  "There's a good tale.  Oughta have your watcher share it sometime."  When she raised an eyebrow, his mirth died instantly, seriousness returning for all its desolate undertones.  "I've danced this dance with you a thousand times, pet.  There are no happy endings for creatures of the night, or Slayers with an expiration date.  I'll always be 'ere, in the same place.  You won't."

"Do all souled vampires end up sounding like Angel?"

He scowled.  "Had to bring the poof up, dinnit yeh?  Damn prat's still a bloody pedestal."

A flash of anger rushed through her at that.  "Now, wait—"

"I mean, in London, Ripper did the same thing.  Wasn't his fault.  He didn't know me."  He looked at her significantly.  "You don't know me.  Hell, it's been three years and I still don't know me."

"Well life's just screwy that way!"  Buffy growled in frustration and turned around.  "If you're what I deserve, if your soul is mine, then—"

"I'm the carrier, and I gotta know how to use it."  William sighed.  "It hurts, luv.  You 'ave no idea how much.  To want you this bad.  To look at you an' know…" He shook his head.  "I can't see passed what I did.  Hurtin' people is one thing, hurtin' someone you love…I don't know if I'll ever forgive myself.  Which is why I'm leavin' once the sodding Master is in the bleedin' ground." A half attempt at a smile.  "'Sides, workin' with Ripper's somethin' I wouldn't soon give up.  Old git's a right chum.  An' I—"

"You'll be able to do that.  Just leave?"

"Won't be easy, if that's what you're askin'.  But cor, Slayer, what is anymore?"

Buffy nodded and took an exaggerated step forward.  "Nothing.  Nothing is ever easy for people who fight.  That's the point.  We live and we fight.  And I don't…" She drew in a deep breath and took his hand, fighting a minute for possession but holding him grounded without much struggle.  "I don't want to have to say goodbye."

A quiver spread through William's body, and he looked at her, predisposed, studying where they were clasped together.  "How can you do this?" he asked softly.  "How can you touch me and not want to rip me to bloody shreds?"

"Nothing's as it should be, Sp…whoever."  Buffy shivered a bit, rolling her shoulders but refusing to retract her touch.  "I'm not over it, I know.  Sometimes I feel so…exposed.  For what happened.  But what I did to you…"

"You didn't do anything to me, pet."

"I sure as hell did!"  Angry, she pulled her hand free.  "I can't keep avoiding responsibility.  I can't keep blaming other people for things I did, or should've done."

William shook his head, running a hand through browning bleached strands.  "You were takin' the blame then, too.  Said you shoulda stopped me a long—"

A frustrated growl climbed into her throat and she turned away in a fury.  "Good God, would you _stop _bringing up things I said then?  I was stupid then.  Stupid and careless.  I was also hurt, but so were you.  I _have _to believe that, Spike.  I have to believe that you wouldn't have done it without being so hurt.  Because there's no way you could've gone and gotten yourself all souled up because you were feeling so peachy about life.  Look at what you wished upon yourself!"  Buffy collapsed tiredly onto the gravestone again, shaking her head with incredulity.  "We need you here," she whispered.  "Willow does, I know.  And I do."

He placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder, offering cold comfort.  "And Ripper needs me in London."

"Are you just telling yourself that because it's easier living there than here?"

"I won't pretend this isn't hard, luv."  William shuffled awkwardly.  "Listenin' to you, talkin' with you.  Being so bloody close.  It was hard enough with an ocean between us.  Tryin' day in and day out to pretend I was normal-like an' human."  A sigh heaved off his chest.  "It won't be any easier over there, but God, I don't think it'll hurt so much."

Buffy frowned.  "Does that even make sense?"

"Sure it does, pet.  You just need to 'ear it from this end."

She emitted a long, frustrated sigh, shaking her head.  "I don't…if you hadn't come back, things would be easier.  I won't say differently.  But God, I don't think I can…everyone leaves me, understand?  I'm hoaxed.  I'm—"

"Whatever 'appens here isn't your fault," he said austerely.  "It's mine.  My bloody mess."

"You're giving me the 'it's not you, it's me' speech?"

"You don't want this."  A beat of irrefutable reproach.  She felt at once exposed and vulnerable.  "I don't mean to sound like the poof, but he was right about at least that.  You deserve something above the wonkiness I 'ave to offer.  Truth of the matter, luv, is that I'm not worthy of you.  An' that's the way it'll always be.  No amount of bloody goodness can ever make it otherwise."  He sighed again and looked down.  "Even if it could, I can't stand the thought of…"

"You're right, I don't want this."  Buffy heaved herself to her feet and began a stride back to the gates, slowly.  Willing him to stop her.  He didn't. "I'm grasping at straws.  And if you were…Spike…I probably would never have said a word of what I've said tonight."  She smiled bitterly.  "I couldn't tell him what he wanted.  I can tell everyone else, but not him.  Never him."

"You could've.  You told me as much before—"

"No."  Vehemently, she shook her head.  "I knew something was up.  Took three years and fifty-one days to figure it out, but I'm finally in the ball game.  Even before you came back, I thought you were dead or something had happened…Spike couldn't stay away, even when we asked him to.  And for the longest time, I told myself that's what I wanted.  I knew it wasn't, but it was easy to live like that.  Willow's the only one who ever knew differently."

He gestured to the duster.  "No one else knows that's mine?"

"I think Xander does, even if he doesn't want to admit it."  She smiled sadly.  "Looks so much different on anyone else.  If he ever saw it by itself, he'd know in a heartbeat."

"Looks better on you than it ever did on me."  When she raised an eyebrow at him in silent reminder of his mirror-challenged nature, he scoffed and added, "Least I'd wager.  It's a slayer's coat.  Belongs on a slayer."

Buffy nodded and stepped further away.  "I guess so."  Without any sort of finale, the conversation withered.  Goodbyes were too painful to endure, even if it was only until tomorrow.  Each led to the last.  Each led to the end.  

"I'm so sorry," she whispered when she thought he couldn't hear her.

"For what?"  The voice was distant—hitting a new note of immeasurable mourning.  He hadn't moved.  He simply sat there, watching her leave.  Knowing he could stop her if he wanted to, grounding himself with resolve to keep from springing to his feet and sweeping her into his arms.

She paused appreciably, turned her head a fraction and murmured, "For making you do this to yourself."  

"No one made me, luv.  I asked for it."

"But you wouldn't have asked…wouldn't have done what you did…if I had had the decency to tell you that night that I loved you."

"You were right not to.  You shouldn't now.  Doesn't make things any easier."

Buffy turned fully.  William had taken her place on gravestone, face contorted in grievous conflict and sacrament.  It felt years had passed since she found him.  There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he would wait there for hours yet to come, watching the unmoving graves.  _I don't know who he is anymore, _she thought sadly.  _But God, it hurts.  _

He hadn't said as much directly, but she saw his unchanged feelings blazing behind tortured eyes.  The man and the demon could love her with equal fervor.  Could she love the man as well as the demon?

The night had already proven as much.  An aching swell engulfed her heart.  

"I can't lie anymore," she returned, eyes watering with the tears that would carry her through the night.  "Lying's what got us here."

He met her eyes and understood, but he couldn't find the words to reply.  Whatever he said had the potency of hurt, and there had been enough of that for one evening.

If there wasn't blood, there would almost always be tears.


	16. I Know You

**Chapter Fifteen**

Though her better senses commanded her feet to turn home, the scars burning her insides persuaded her pumping legs to pivot north instead of south.  With every lingering beat that filled the gap between herself and the broken vampire, Buffy's heart welled with embittered resentment, hurt mending slowly into betrayal.  Chilled air collided with the hot tears pouring down her face.  In the midst of all the confusion, she didn't know what to think.  Anger was human nature, and had to have a place somewhere.  

The most obvious target was herself, but she shunned the notion away for a more acceptable frontage.  

Spike had a soul.

With as much as the truth had pounded her mind already in the past hour, she couldn't force herself beyond realization.  Spike had a soul.  Spike had willingly gone out and won his soul.  A prize.  The trophy signifying the end of long trials.

He had won a soul for her.

There was no doubt in her mind that it was Spike's intention to return after he collected his bounty.  He had told Clem as much before his departure.  Never had he calculated the possibility that subsequent guilt would consume him so thoroughly.  It had been three years, closer to four, and he still was not ready.

He had sacrificed everything for her, but could not predict the consequences of his actions.

And Buffy couldn't stop crying.

It was an angry fist that pounded relentlessly on Giles's motel door.  Scarred eyes met a wordless gaze, and without vocal confirmation, he understood.

"You know," he observed reverently.  She couldn't tell if shock or relief coursed through his tone, and at that minute, it didn't matter. "You…"

"I know," she acknowledged, tenor cold.  She knew she was misplaced in her anger, but it pumped through her, filling lungs with air and veins with blood.  "God, how could you not tell me?"

The Watcher sighed, motioning her inward with a jest of his head.  Buffy followed grudgingly, duster tight against her body.  It wasn't until she heard the door close behind her that she turned around.  Awkward silence filled mindless gaps as he brushed passed her to shut off the television, set to the news, of course, as only Giles would.  He pulled out a chair beside the heat vent and offered her a seat.

"Things are going to get difficult for you," he acknowledged wearily.  "And perhaps I could have stopped that, had I mentioned something.  But that wasn't the way he wanted it, and I had to respect his desires.  After all, I dragged him along, and despite all the trouble it's seemed to have caused, I am glad I did.  There are things he's seen that would have taken me a while to pick up on.  You saw him earlier today in the Magic Box."  A sigh rolled off his shoulders.  "The William you met tonight is a far cry from the William I took in those years ago.  He wasn't a mess, but he wasn't as collected as he is now.  The slightest reference had the ability to send him down the path of sacrament.  He cries at ease, now, usually when forgiveness is mentioned or implied, but in retrospect, he has progressed admirably."  Giles looked down, studying his clasped hands.  "He believed up until our arrival that you hated him, and he was…well, not _content, _but satisfied.  To him, it was poetic justice.  He could deal with it, even if it ate him up.  It killed him to know he was the source of your suffering, but he accepted that it was right that way.  He never wanted you to stop hating him.  You have seen him…what did you say?"

The Watcher's words worked like ice through her heated bloodstream, and by the time he stopped speaking, she was rendered no more enlightened than she had felt upon leaving the graveyard.  A heavier burden of guilt was weighing forth.  "I…" The Slayer looked down, the mask of anger fading away, beset with reluctant understanding.  "I didn't know, and I had to…I realized that I…and I had to tell him…"

"Buffy."  Attentively, Giles leaned forward, eyes dangerously wide.  "Do you love him?"

"I did," she whispered, looking down at last.  "I loved Spike, I mean.  Don't look so horrified.  Took me a while to realize, and even longer to accept.  I didn't fully understand until tonight.  Until I realized how much…" Her voice trailed off with a heavy breath.  "I told him, and—"

"You told him?"  He paled with concern.  "Oh God.  How is he?"

The way those two understood each other was uncanny.  Buffy shook her head in amazement.  "He broke down.  Then he started yelling at me.  About how I couldn't love something like him, because of what he had tried to do.  And I told him I had forgiven him…then I saw."

"You told him you loved him before you knew?"

Buffy pursed her lips.  She couldn't find a will within herself to look at the Watcher.  The spot on the far wall suddenly became the epitome of fascination.  "Like I said, I'm a sick, horrible thing that loved a monster.  But sweet Jesus, I don't care anymore.  You saw what he did.  He did it for me, Giles.  Spike—not William…he did it for me.  And that's worth everything.  And now…" Tears clouded her eyes, squeezing passed sealing barriers before she could stop them.  "And now I don't know who he is."

A small, understanding smile spread nether the Watcher's lips, and he stood, nearing to give her shoulder a reassuring pat.  "Take it from me…picture Spike as you knew him.  Add an immeasurable conscience, thoughtfulness, and a sense of poetic appreciation, and you have William.  Sometimes the similarities between my colleague and the demon are so…precise that…"

"But I don't know what to think anymore!"  Buffy cried, leaning into what comfort her former Watcher had to offer.  _"How _could he do that?  How could he ask for his soul?  It's _impossible, _Giles!  You and I both know that's—"

"Oh yes.  I _knew _so bloody much at the time that I could not help but hurt him with my opinion.  Even after we were working together, I doubted the sincerity of his motivation.  It wasn't the big things, understand.  Every time he let his guard down, he unconsciously let me see a part of himself.  I first saw him as William, oh, likely the night he told me that he refused to let himself grow too comfortable sleeping on my couch, eating my food, and so forth.  He noted a desire to have legal means to obtain his blood and Wheatabix.  He never wanted me to forgive him or consider him a friend."  Giles shook his head in lingering awe.  Even after so many years, it could take him aback.  "The trouble is, you can't know William and not _crave _his friendship.  I don't see him as a demon anymore, Buffy.  Whatever suffering he puts himself through—lest it concerns you—he keeps concealed. He's the most helpful worker I've had, and his passion for books rivals my own.  Spike gave William to the world because he thought it would make you happy.  It was perhaps the only selfless thing he ever did.  He…he truly loved you.  William loves you, too.  It's hard to know where he ends and Spike begins.  They are so…alike."

An odd sense of revered complacency commanded her features, and her gaze traveled dazedly from the wall to the floor.  "He sounds wonderful," she whispered, closing her eyes tightly and shaking her head.  "God!  What kind of person would miss a demon, Giles?  I'm the goddamned Slayer!  And I can't help—"

"I would have agreed with you, once upon a time," he acknowledged.  "But my understanding of this situation is much more extensive than our ordeal with Angelus all those years ago."  When she challenged him with her eyes, he sighed with exasperation and rose to his feet, instinctively modifying conduct into instructor mode.  "Spike's desire for a soul inadvertently gave him one.  Not literally, of course—that didn't come until later.  But when he saw that it would please you, his ability to fight his demon and _crave _the change…I believe that gave him a figurative spirit.  His genuine want of goodness and love for you overpowered the darker nature of his origin.  He did not understand it then, and while he struggled with his instincts, he learned to control them."  Giles captured any straying conviction with a significant intake of breath.  "He loved you, demon and man, where no vampire, not even Angel, could dare to touch you.  What happened that night in your bathroom—" She winced. "—I believe was a reflection of the demon in face of rejection.  Of trying so hard without reaping the benefit of altered consequence.  Did you love him then?"

Buffy sighed and looked down.  "I told him that I could never trust him enough for that.  That night, I mean.  That's what I said before…but Angel reminded me of something tonight.  I loved him before I trusted him."  Unbelievingly. She shook her head.  "'Course, I was sixteen and had only died once.  That seems so long ago."

"Just a few years." Giles smiled.  "Did you, though?"

"Love Spike?  Yeah.  I did.  He knew it, least it seemed like he did.  Kept telling me I did, even when I insisted it wasn't possible.  I think…no, that is why I pushed him away.  I knew then, on some level…I had to.  And it terrified me.  How could I love a killer?  What kind of monster was I?"  Buffy's tears came easily now, flowing freely down her cheeks with no sense of reserve.  "So he's suffering now because of me.  Because I was too prejudiced to see him for what he was when he—"

"You couldn't have known better.  I wouldn't have, then.  He has what he wanted.  What he believed you deserved."

"An eternity of torment?  How could he want that?"

"Because of the wrong he committed you." The Watcher smiled softly, sighing with dry realization.  "Perhaps I was wrong, and I never should have brought him.  Well, I suppose that's a bit rash; his assistance thus far has been more than sufficient.  But I don't believe he is doing either of you any good.  I shudder to think how much we will have retracted in progress when we finally return to London.  He's here because he loves you.  Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words, but I can see.  His eyes—"

"Yes.  Likely, with your admission, he will refrain from pronouncing his affections verbally."  Giles sighed.  "It would only make things harder for you."

She stifled a sob.  "Things are already hard.  I just wish I could do something.  Everything I do that I think will make things better just…hurts him more."

"At least he knows," he replied softly.  "And after time, knowing such will help him heal."

The storm finally began to wither, her aching insides reaching some point of acceptable calm.  Buffy sighed and looked down.  She felt she had drained herself dry of tears, and the mere notion caused her eyes to well up again.  No more would be shed tonight.  The evening had had its share.

"It hurts," she whispered.

"Yes," Giles agreed.  "But it won't forever.  William will likely distance himself from you.  But be assured he loves you very much.  He wouldn't pain himself like this if he didn't."

Buffy nodded, trembling.  "I'm not sure if that makes things better," she murmured.  "Or worse."

*~*~*

Everyone had assembled at the Magic Box for what would be one of the last communal meetings.  Until the Master went public, Giles ventured it was best to refrain from community property and stick to places that required an invitation.  He was alone when he arrived that evening.  Willow was at the register, helping Dawn prepare for upcoming finals.  Angel and Buffy were sparring in the back rooms—an occasional grunt or two emanating to the entry.  Xander had buried himself in books, arriving somewhat fatigued from a long night.  After William's departure the previous evening, Dawn had dragged him to the Bronze where he disappeared for two hours, returning with a dazed, half-goofy smile on his face.  Conspicuously, the lead singer of the Annoying Pedestrians was also absent during that interval.

They all had their various ways of dealing with apprehension.

The sun had set an hour and a half before William finally arrived.  Buffy, pumped from her workout, felt a familiar twinge cripple her insides and knew before he entered that he was near.  There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he suffered the same insight.  After their sorrowful exchange, it would be difficult to look at him.  To know and not speak.

To know and not implore his forgiveness for forcing him to such desperate measures.

Buffy understood why she had revoked blame for so many years.  Irrefutably, guilt was one nasty bitch.

However, when he pushed through the doors, nothing remained of the man she had left the night before.  Instead, he carried the visage of the utmost concentration, confident in stride even if his eyes told her otherwise.  For the briefest instant, she marveled at how different he looked without his coat before consciously digging her nails into the leather that surrounded her.

"Nice of you to join us," Xander quipped, not looking up.  "Especially—"

"Sod off, Harris, I want to get a few things straight."  Attention immediately captivated by everyone in the room.  Angel slowed by her side, handing her a diet soda, even as her eyes refused to leave the bleached vampire at the front of the store.  No one made a sound.  "I prolly should 'ave started with this yesterday, but I'd like to get it out of the way so we don't folly around and waste valuable time with little nasties.  Can't afford any more distractions.  In order: yes, I am back in town.  Yes, I have been workin' with Ripper since I left.  And yes, I did snatch myself a soul before I got to London.  All's the well, then.  Back to work, people."

No one moved for a full minute.

"And to that I add a 'huh'?" Xander finally said.  "You got a _what?"_

Buffy drew in a breath and held it, popping open her soda and taking a long, hard swig.  The astonishment beaming from her sister and her friend was singular for their lasting unawareness.  They were the only two left out of the loop.  It was for show, she understood.  Certain factors had the means to get in the way of more important things.  If they didn't come out with William's altered persona, he would be gone before everyone had the chance to catch up.

Hostility was not needed here, and while the announcement likely wouldn't clear away all diversion, it was nice to come clean.

No more secrets.

The vampire turned to Xander and arched a sardonic brow.  "A nice sparkly surprise.  You know.  Like what Peaches has, only a bit more poetic.  That's all I 'ave to say.  Chop, chop.  Time's a wastin'."

"No!" Dawn cried, pacing steps forward.  "You can't just come in here and say that and…and expect us to go 'Oh, all right' and get back to work.  How did you do it?  _Where _did you get it?  Was—"

"Firstly, Nibblet, I don't expect you to do anything.  I didn't say it so you'd forgive me.  Rather you not.  Go 'head and wallop me a few times; won't make a bit of bloody difference.  Gimme all I deserve."  A sad smile tickled his lips, and Buffy watched her sister's face contort with grief-stricken realization.  When she didn't move, William heaved a sigh and shook his head.  "I got it in Africa.  Went there right after…" Unbidden his eyes rose and finally met hers, flashes of lightning waving behind stormy pupils—a sea of inward torment and forbidden adoration.  A thousand apologies screaming an empty plight to the night that didn't want to hear.  "Went there right after I left town.  Beat me a few baddies and got this as a prize.  So you can all get off Ripper's case for workin' with somethin' to the likes of me." He spoke broadly as though the announcement was directed to everyone.  "He didn't take me in outta the kindness of his heart."

"Well—" Giles began to protest.

"Least not until he saw that I wasn't…that I'm not…" William trailed off in exasperation, body frame hung with tension.  The room fell still until he moved, chuckling humorlessly as Willow came to his side, hand instinctively drawn to his shoulder.  "You know," he said, turning to Xander.  "I've had this bloody conversation three times already since I got here.  Have the entire speech memorized, and I just realized I don't give a good damn what you think.  Wasted more time trying to cover my tracks from the bloodhounds that we coulda used to research this apocalypse.  You want the full story?  Ask Peaches, or Red 'ere, or Buffy."  His eyes were drawn home again.  "I jus' don't 'ave it in me right now."         

Sharply, both Dawn and Xander spun on their heels to glare at the Slayer.  "You knew?" they demanded simultaneously.

"Only since last night," she replied defensively.  "And hey!  Why yelly at the Buffy?  Both Willow and Angel—"

"Enough!"  The vampire at her side came forward, shaken with irritation.  "There's no point in arguing about it now.  Spike told everyone for a reason, and we need to respect that.  For the moment, we have bigger problems to deal with.  Everyone can be angry with everyone when I'm gone and out of danger of a massive headache."  Angel shook his head and turned away, selecting a random book off the shelf and flipping open the cover.

"Thanks, Peaches," William muttered, though it was obvious the words came with difficulty.  After an uncomfortably long pause, he cleared his throat and moved toward Giles, selecting a book off the shelf beside him.  "I was thinkin' last night," he said, speaking casually as though the previous conversation hadn't existed.  "This Master bloke's got a real yen to hurt you."  He commanded Buffy's gaze with his.  "I'm thinkin' there might be a stronger link between him and the chap you killed.  Can't say for certain, but I'd be prepared fo' anything.  He might attack your mind, even hold memories passed on from—"

The Watcher stepped forward sharply.  "You're not suggesting reincarnation, are you?"

William shook his head.  "No.  Nothin' like that.  I'm sayin' he'll feed off his rage.  The more brassed he is, the stronger he'll be.  And his followers will revere him like a bloody god."

"A vampiric Buddha," Angel offered unhelpfully.  

"More like little Buddha goes ballistic," the other vampire quipped, arousing a snort of amusement from Giles, and they shared a few seconds of isolated laughter before understanding their humor had escaped impressionable minds.  The reaction was almost simultaneous: they looked down, coughed, murmured something intelligible, and shuffled on with work. 

To Willow, Xander tentatively whispered, "Are we _sure _they're not related?"

And this was how they worked, Buffy realized.  This was an image of how life carried through in London.  

"My point is," William continued, flexing his shoulders as if to reaffirm his composure, "that I think this bloke'll 'ave anticipated every bloody precaution we're taking.  He's not the same fellow, of course, but he'll 'ave a sense about your style.  He'll attack where he knows it hurts the most. 

"How would he know?" the Slayer whispered.

"I'm guessin' by these vamps that bleed blackness.  Strong number growin' by the minute.  He's bein' careful—trying nothing impulsive." For the life of him, William looked like he should have a pair of glasses in the heart of mid-lecture polishing.  If he noticed her unbelieving scrutiny, he did not make it known.  "Whatever vamps you've killed 'ave been expendable.  Like martyrs helpin' the cause.  Your tinglies don't go away, do they?"  She blinked, realized he had addressed her, and shook her head.  "Didn't think so.  Yeah.  Been watchin' you, they 'ave.  'S not even safe to patrol anymore."  With a sudden burrow of fury, the vampire growled and kicked a nearby trashcan in wan frustration.  Several concerned glances were shot toward the Watcher in anticipation of a violent outbreak, but he knowingly shook his head in promise that the spat was minor, and his companion was nowhere near losing control.   

William noticed and rolled his eyes, obviously restraining himself from tapping his chest in reminder of his earlier announcement.  Instead he shook his head and continued.  "I'd lay low—find a safe place.  Chances are your house's monitored, and even if they aren't allowed across the threshold, there'll be a loophole.  They'll find it."

"But they can't—" Dawn stuttered.

"I bloody well know they can't.  What I'm sayin' is there'll be things they can do to get you outside.  Might be during the daylight.  Me and Peaches aren't the only vamps that can lurk in the shadows and wait for you to come to us."  He took a minute to indulge in a proud smirk—a true visage of the demon that had harvested his body for over a century.  Buffy suppressed a slight shiver.  "I'd recommend stayin' somewhere you don't go often."  

"We can use my parents' basement," Xander volunteered, then flinched.  "Again.  They should be used to me being such a low-life.  Though it's most likely storage down there, now."

"It'll do," Buffy agreed.  "But I don't think I should stop patrolling.  I mean— that's kind of excessive.  There's lots of innocent people out there who—"

William's eyes blazed with concern, mouth dropping open in protest.  However, it was Angel who stepped forward first, placing a hand on her shoulder in silent verification.  "We should patrol," he agreed, glancing up and catching the other vampire's eyes.  "All of us.  It's not safe for the others, but we could handle—"

A grunt of disbelieving laughter escaped the bleached blond, his eyes going wide with incredulity.  "There's a bloody party I'd hate to crash.  No.  Sorry, Peaches.  I'm not going to put up with—"

"Spike," the Slayer intervened softly, stepping forward and symbolically out of Angel's reach.  She placed a hand delicately on his forearm, eyes wide and beseeching.  The wave of softness that coursed in affect was impossible to miss.  "Please?"

That was it, and everyone knew it.  Thick tension pierced the air—surprising that it could remain so heavy with everything that had occurred.  Torn conflict and swelling adoration filled William's eyes, and with a quaking sigh, he looked down and nodded.  "All right," he conceded, nodding tightly.  "All right."    

A smile flickered across her lips—sad but content.  Her hand traveled down his arm to grasp his, giving him a reassuring squeeze.  The touch was fiery cold, painful to both but similarly impossible to retract.  They were both so starved for contact, even if it hurt.

The room remained speculatively silent with the exchange—respectful if not confused.  Neither moved until Angel stalked passed them, pushing through the shop doors.  At that, they redefined the space between them, though not by much, and followed without another word.

"Why do I have the feeling," Xander muttered, "that we missed something _big?"_

No one replied.  Dawn was staring at the door, as though expecting something else to happen of measurable significance.  "Look what he did for her," she whispered, awe-struck.  "I can't believe him.  I can't believe _me.  _I was so awful to him the other night."

"As you should have been," Harris affirmed with a stern nod.  "For all you knew—"

"Hey!" Willow growled, prowling forward.  "Lay off!  Sure, Spike did a terrible thing.  So did I, if you guys remember.  He also did something remarkable because he felt so bad.  I—"

"We're talking about Spike here," he retorted.  "Remember.  'Ooh, I'm an evil demon, who—'"

The Witch rolled her eyes and shook her head.  "Don't be a butt, Xan."

"Well, how'd he do it?  Must've done something—"  

"Fact of the matter is," Giles said softly—twitching his irritation and discomfort.  "Whatever he is right now is what counts.  Will is a colleague and a friend who loves her very much.  I trust him with my life and hers.  And as much as you would like to believe otherwise, Spike gave William to the world out of his guilt. He sacrificed himself." Pausing fondly, the Watcher gazed out the window, eyes falling down the street where the unlikely trio had vanished.  "Wish I could thank him."


	17. Rip, Tear, Burn

**Chapter Sixteen**

A blond head strayed a safe distance away from the vampire and the Slayer trailing behind him—the self-imposed detachment doing little to alleviate the manifest awkwardness.  Again, night had fallen with alarming rapidity, and an air of disconcertion fell over the otherwise still terrain.  

The evening was heavy with the sense of straining apprehension.  Buffy felt her insides tightening with the need for further release, but she dared not speak up here.  Now.  Not with Angel by her side.  Not with the discomfiture searing between herself and the platinum vampire ahead.  Though their revelations were only a day old, the silence between them was already stretching beyond the boundaries of the longstanding unease linking herself and her other former demon lover.

A tangle of warring emotions.  William intently stalked leagues ahead of them, clearly craving no conversation or suggestion of motivation.  The closeness they shared in spurts—the loving gazes, the touches, the sharp intakes of breath—were becoming short-lived and similarly difficult to pull away from.  Buffy's conflicted esteem squirmed in agony.  Beside Angel she walked, though she wished him miles away.  There were things she had yet to share with his childe.  Discarded confessions and wary conclusions—a need to know where they stood.  What she had shared the previous night had yet to be rebuked.  The longer he stayed, the harder it would be to say goodbye.  

The shared emotion that touched his eyes every time he looked in her direction painfully reassured her that her suffering was nothing compared to his.

At last, the hurrying vampire subsided in haste, coming to a halt not too far from the gravesite they had talked over the previous night.  She knew he would not go further.  Drawing in a breath, Buffy took seat atop a headstone, hoping Angel would understand the unvoiced need for distance.   

The night cocooned around them with all its wondrous strain.  William was leaning reverently against a crypt door, trying hard not to look at her.  His sire occupied himself, trading glances between the Slayer and the conspicuously darkened night sky.  

It could not last long.  Releasing his restraint, the bleached vampire chortled humorlessly and shook his head.  "What a walloping load of fun this is," he drawled, reaching for his cigarettes.  He was well aware of the eyes watching him as he lit up, drawing a deep drag and emanating a string of smoke.  "Peaches?  Wanna fag?"

Everyone knew Angel never smoked.  It was difficult to miss the telltale tremors running through the other vampire's body.  With a sigh of concession, he began, "Spike—"

"Just tryin' to keep the conversation rollin'."  William shrugged and tucked his smokes away, eyes darting wearily to Buffy and back again.  "Would offer one to you, pet," he murmured, "but everyone keeps tellin' me these things'll kill yeh."  

"Spike."  The sound of his sire's voice rang with stress.  "We don't like this anymore than you do."

"Yeh.  You should be over 'ere."  His feet shuffled with the preemptory need to pace.  Somehow he managed to remain grounded.  "I'm out with the two people who should hate me more than anyone in the world.  Just how I fancied spendin' my evening."

Angel frowned, tossing a brief glance to the Slayer.  "We don't—"

"I know you bloody don't," he retorted, almost bitterly.  With a cynical grin, he shook his head and turned his eyes to the heavens.  "What does it take to get a good staking around 'ere?  I'm still shocked that I 'aven't been reduced to dust.  Really thought if one of you didn't do it that Harris would 'ave a jolly hay day."

"I wouldn't let him," Buffy said softly, eliciting a brief, compassionate glance from his gauche being.  

A look made him soften.  She wanted to go to him but forced herself to sit still.  William smiled sadly.  "Shouldn't, luv.  Oh bloody well.  S'pose there's not much use of extra dusty particles around 'ere.  'Sides, Ripper would've been brassed."  And that was it.  Without warning, he receded back into his protective cave, surrounded with structures of never-ending guilt and regularity.  He would not willingly emerge.  Even if he saw it hurt, he would never bring himself to cross those barriers.

Discomfort seared behind his words.  Buffy bit her lip and tossed a weary glance to Angel.  Perhaps he was the key.  As long as he was near, there was no hope the other vampire would open up to her.  They had so much to discuss.  Whatever kindness had spawned between the two was on wobbly ground, trusted but not quite enough.  

A sigh coursed through her body and she forced herself to look at the larger picture.  Perhaps there was nothing left to discuss.  Perhaps they had said all there was to say the night before.  She desperately craved conversation with him, reassurance, faith, anything that would bring the loathsome struggling of her conscious to a final rest.  But even then, that hardly seemed fair.  In the past few days, she had played witness to a vampire she didn't know, a vampire created by something that wasn't supposed to feel compassion or remorse.  And it was only in the revelations made the evening before that she allowed herself to see it.  That she admitted there was something to see.  

She had told him she loved him but she hardly knew him anymore.  And the more she saw of this man, this person wearing Spike's clothing and speaking in Spike's voice, the more she _wanted_ to know.  The closer she wanted to get.  If this was the man Spike had given to her, she wanted to absorb everything there was to know was about him.  

She wanted to know how closely linked William and Spike were in actuality.  Giles assured her their similarities were astonishingly connected, but she couldn't attempt to fool herself.  Not with her confession tainting the air.  They were not the same.  They might have the same components, the same characteristics, the same ability to love and the same fire for her burning deep in their breast, but they were not the same.

Just as she never forgot that Spike didn't have a soul, she could never forget that William did.

"Irony," Buffy murmured to herself, though knowing that both her vampiric colleagues could hear.  "Irony is one lousy bitch."

"'S that, pet?" William asked softly, but she didn't answer.  And he didn't repeat.

A sigh heaved off her chest and she cast her eyes downward, studying the ridges on her shoes, wishing herself away, anywhere.  Angel backed up a few paces, and they temperamentally waited out the silence.

An hour had passed before she realized he would not speak to her.  Whatever this was, they were beyond words. Solitude would not open the gateway to comfort—Angel's presence was likely the only thing keeping him from falling apart.  They were beyond talking out their problems and waiting for the mysterious answer.  He wasn't going to let her in—not more than he had already.  Not to be burned.

"You know," she said, rising to her feet.  "I don't think I can do this."

"What?" Angel's voice.  William needed no assurance.

"This…us working together.  He was right."  Buffy exhaled and gestured broadly to the other vampire.  "You two can take patrol tonight, can't you?"

"And 'ave you walk home by yourself?" The platinum blond arched a perfect brow.  "Don't think so."

She rolled her eyes.  "Oh please.  Don't be ridiculous.  If anything attacks me, it'll be in more danger than I am."

"Not if you're attacked by a bloody lot of vamps."  William pointed to Angel.  "Peaches, walk with the lady."

This time, it was she who balked, blinking disbelievingly.  The caution admittedly would have escaped her notice had he not brought it up, but now that it was in the open; it was nice to have something to throw back at him.  All more besides, she wasn't about to leave him now.  Not with the memory of her Slayer dream stinging in hot recollection.  "What?  And have _you _sit out here by yourself?"

He bristled with a disengaging snort.  "I can take care of myself, Slayer."

"So can I.  You don't die twice and not come back the wiser.  But that seemed to escape your notice."    

"You two are impossible," Angel decided with a grunt, pacing away.  _"I'll _go."

Buffy frowned.  "But what about—"

"No arguments," he retorted, not pausing in stride.  "I know I'm not wanted here, and it's obvious you have your issues to resolve.  All these stupid excuses."  He shook his head incredulously, paces becoming more pronounced the further away he got.  

When it sank in that he was not coming back, William met Buffy's gaze hesitantly, then tore himself away with a huff of unneeded air.  "Blast that bloody poof," he growled through his teeth.  

Any form of a reply lodged ineffectually in her throat.  Dumbly, she stared at the place Angel had vacated, berating him for his irritating insight.

The vampire tore his eyes away from her, looking down and shooting for a raw attempt at humor.  "If I knew it was that easy to get Peaches to sod off, I would've tried a long time ago."  Neither laughed.  There was emptiness behind his tone, a dry loss for the once-held safe hold.  A quick glance in her direction unveiled his anxiety.  Releasing a deep breath, he finally pushed himself off the tomb and succumbed to the desire to pace.

"He left us for a reason," Buffy observed.  It was the first coherent thought to pass through her mind.  She was absorbed with the idea that Angel would willingly entrust her with his childe.  More than astonishment filled her veins.  Change was coming in masses, thick and overwhelming.  Though she knew she should be used to the altered perception of her peers, it surprised her still to see such a difference in attitude wittingly reflected.

"I know, pet."  William stopped, devastatingly near.  "Poofter thinks he's doin' me a favor.  Or you.  But we've covered all this already.  Talkin' more's not goin' to make anyone happy."

Wearily, she nodded.  "I know that and it doesn't matter.  You came here, so you'll have to put up with me."  The Slayer rose to her feet heavily.  "Oh boy.  This isn't going to be easy.  I said some things last night that I shouldn't have."

"Buf—"

"No.  I need to do this.  I…what I said hurt you, and it didn't even apply."  Visibly, he flinched.  "Despite what you say, or what Giles says, I've seen both sides of this before.  You're not…him…I have to remember that.  But despite everything, I still want to know you, William."  There was a sharp intake of breath as he looked up; hands perched at his gunslinger hips.  The use of his given name, unbidden, with no sense of struggle perceptibly affected every nerve in his being.

The war of the eyes stretched, teasing and tautening.  Immeasurable silence followed, perturbed only by substantial breaths and the thick atmosphere searing with anticipation.  Slowly, he licked his lips and conceded.  It was all there was left to do.  Fighting was useless and avoiding the issue was out of the question.  They always circled to the point of origination.  To the continuous battle of _why _and _because.  _"What do you want to know?" he finally choked.

What did she want to know?  There were so many things!  From a thousand options, only a few articulately survived the tidal wave of forthcoming knowledge, the need to know and devour every inch of him.  Things she had never thought to ask Angel.  Did it physically feel different?  What was his reaction to pain?  Did he still feed regularly?  Did he eat Wheatabix as often as before?  Was he slacking on his nicotine addiction?—(she had only seen him light up a time or two).  What was his favorite color?  Did he have any unpublished poetry she could read?  How did the words come to him so effortlessly?  If he was stranded on a desert island (assuming the sun had no affect on him), what three—

A menacing grunt disturbed the air as she finally thought to open her mouth and voice one or a thousand of these inquiries aloud.  Before either could gather what was occurring, she was thrown to the ground, held by something putrid and heavy.  It took only that to register her tinglies were going haywire, and a cold rush of panic shot through every limb in affect.

The next instant, she was freed—jerked to her feet and protectively near William.  Demonic features had replaced his human face.  They were encircled.  A grouping of uncharacteristically patient vampires moving in the lines, baring fangs and daring either to do something stupid.

Obviously, whoever organized this raid didn't realize exactly what type of party to crash.  Spike was notorious for his willingness to thrust himself into danger, often hasty and without thought.  She could only hope it was a trait shared by his soulful counterpart.  

The answer was shortcoming.  With a possessive growl, she was pushed behind him, safely out of way as the first attacker lost his sense of fortitude and moved for strike.  That was all it took.  

The rest was poetry—pure and simple.  Buffy managed to break free of the remaining circle, consequentially separating from her vampiric companion.  It was hard to tell how many were following her, or how many there were altogether.  William warded three in his direction, but for every one he killed, another took its place.  Misaims sent black essence across the darkened ground, and cold seemed to engulf her from every angle in reproach.  

However, her tinglies were remaining particularly singular.  She didn't sense the presentation of the new Master this evening.

"Where are they all bloody comin' from?" William screamed, but she didn't answer.  She couldn't let her thoughts divide between kill and dialogue.  However, her eyes disobeyed and wandered worriedly in his direction in between blocks and jabs.  The distraction was minimal but enough.  Buffy denied herself concern with his welfare.  It would only get in the way.  

She looked away before she could see the vamp come at him from behind and smack him unconscious with a detached tree limb.

The Slayer flipped to a stance atop a headstone, warring off those who came for her with little difficulty, almost blind with air thickened by dust.  Those vampires previously occupied with William dove for her in unsighted fury.  It was then that she saw the discarded bleached blond, and while warning bells sounded, she did not have time to change her objective.

That did not stop the scream from tearing at her vocals.  "SPIKE!" But he did not move.

The abundance of vampires seemingly stopped loading in supply, the remaining encompassing the gravestone on which she was perched.  They were all hisses and snarls—at least eight still standing.  Buffy realized William wasn't going to move anytime soon and a breath lodged tightly in her throat.  There wasn't time to formulate a defensive strategy.  It was instinct from here on out.

The Slayer leaped forward with an intended drop kick to the vampire nearest to her, but was intervened in mid-air by something heavy and metallic streaking an angry slash into her backside.  There wasn't time to react—no time to scream.  Hungry smacking filled the space in place of her painful grunt, and Buffy reflectively fell in the opposite direction, leg snagging over the stone edge of the tomb.  She landed roughly on her back and flinched her pain; aware of the amounting danger she was in.  Slayer blood poured freely onto the grass behind her, and any decent vampire could smell it a mile away.

And they were everywhere—hovering, hissing, and snapping.  She attempted to roll over, but the cut at her backside sent her back again, reeling in another outcry.  Second time lucky, Buffy fought free of pawing hands, kicking on in the face and twisting to trip another.  With a grunt, she heaved herself to her feet, swaggering slightly with a limp.  Still faster than her attackers, the Slayer spun, prepared, stake materializing out of nowhere and no sooner thrust into an advancing opponent.  The remaining seven were packing and she was desperately lacking in options.  She wasn't about to hobble out with her life and leave William to fend for himself.  

It was only then that she could hazard a glance in his direction, but the bleached vampire had vanished.  A rush of panic seized abrupt control of her functions, eyes darting in every which direction.  He was simply gone.  

"Spike!" she yelled.  Left, right, left.  No.  He was gone.  And the remaining vamps were racing for her.  Buffy clamped her teeth on the inside of her cheek to wan away an interference of unneeded emotion.  Tears defiantly welled in her eyes, threatening to blur her vision if she didn't act soon.  

A bulge suddenly flashed passed her and two of her attackers exploded into dust.  Angel's voice, ringing with frightened authority:  "Get down!" as he busied himself with another.  However, Buffy wasn't listening.  She barely registered his presence.  All she knew was William—

Was over there.

From where he appeared, she had not the faintest.  A group of three had surrounded him, and despite injury, he was managing with relative ease.  Two gone in seconds.  To her left, Angel dusted another.  Three left.  Buffy sprinted for the first she saw, grasping the branch of a tree overhead, and swinging her body forward.  The wood snapped and provided a piece of pointy limb into her tight, irritated grasp.  She ignored the splinters that found haven in her palms, ignored everything until the improvised stake was nestled into the cavity of the nearest.

Angel rushed to her side and took another with him.  By the time William joined them—panting for unneeded breath—the last was dust.  And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the attack was over, and silence settled in once more.  Heavy and awkward, all except the gulps of air heaving from overactive lungs.

The sudden stillness hung in extended unease, as though expecting a recapitulation with each passing second.  When a full minute had ticked by, Buffy met William's eyes and lunged, throwing her arms around his neck and clutching him to her tightly, seeking comfort and assurance.  "Oh God!" she gasped.  "I thought…"

The vampire looked helplessly to Angel before drawing his arms around her.  "Shh, pet.  'S all right.  Everyone here's still non-staked.  I…" His nostrils flared just as his hand fingered the growing damp spot against her clothing.  Immediately, his hold retracted.  "You're bleedin', Slayer."

The words triggered the numbing sores on her worn body, and a sharp pain stretched instantaneously across her back, another attacking her leg.  Buffy flinched and wobbled forward, latching onto his shoulder for support.  "Ow," she murmured as though it were an afterthought.  Her pain-stricken face told a different story.  "Vamps got me with something sharp."

Angel took hold of her free arm features, taut with concern.  "Are you all right?" he demanded.  

Buffy huffed a breath and nodded.  "Didn't even feel it until…" She frowned, fully acknowledging his presence for the first time.  "When did you get back?"

"I ran into a group of vamps on the way out," Angel explained.  "Enough to keep me occupied till I could get to you."  Sharply, he looked to William.  "Your place near here?"

It took the vampire a minute to realize he had been addressed—still engaged with sustaining the Slayer's balance.  "Not too far," he replied with a general nod in a random direction.  Then he grew suspicious.  "Why?"

"You should take her there for tonight."  Buffy felt William tense against her, the strong arm holding her upward going rigid.  Angel read his disposition immediately and rolled his eyes.  "Listen, whatever this is, you're going to _have _to get over it.  You won't do any good if you get like this every time we need help."

The Slayer's brow furrowed in agitation.  "Wow.  Overprotective much?  I think I can get home just fine."

"Not if we're attacked again.  And I thought we established that you're staying in Xander's basement for a few days.  That's further away, if memory serves."  Angel tossed another gaze to William.  "Do you have a place for her at the crypt?"

"There's room enough for both of us."  A sort of painful understanding had manifestly washed over him.  "I can get her there."

This was maddening.  There was nothing Buffy hated more than being belittled.  With an angry gesture, she fought out of William's embrace and hobbled forward.  "Don't talk as though I haven't taken worse.  Walking corpse, hello!"

The vampires shot her identical incredulous glances.  There was a breath of reproach.  "Fine," she conceded.  "We're _all _walking corpses.  But—"

"Spike's hurt," Angel said suddenly.  "We can't risk another attack."

Instantly, her anger dissolved into concern.  Buffy turned back to the bleached vampire, unable to stop prowling hands from searching for injury.  "Are you all right?  Where—"

"Just a bump on the head," he assured her, visibly pained by her anxiety.  "Don't worry luv, I've survived worse."  He twitched in discomfort, and she shared his sentiments.  Neither was used to such blatant displays of worry and affection, and yet she couldn't help herself.  Over-compensation for so much neglect.  With a half-smile, he attempted, "Certain someone I remember once dropped a bloody organ on me.  Still standin' 'ere to tell the tale."

Buffy's eyes flared but she could conjure nothing but a sad smile.  The moment was brief, her attentions otherwise occupied within seconds.  She flashed angrily back to Angel.  "What about you?" she demanded.  "You could get me home—"

"I could, but it's too risky.  You're bleeding, Buffy. A walking vampire beacon.  You two need to just…get over it for tonight.  If you think I'm enjoying this, then you're wrong.  I'm just capable of being rational when there are no other options."  With finale, he looked back to William.  "Get her out of here, now."  

The next few seconds passed all too quickly for Buffy to calculate what was happening until it was over.  One minute she was firm on the ground, glaring at Angel, and the next she had been lifted off her feet, and scenery was flashing by in a blur.  A long, bumpy trek to the other side of the graveyard.  William was moving with speed she had forgotten he possessed, seemingly not hampered by the woman curled in his arms.  

When thoughts started to untwine, she managed to grunt a falsely exasperated, "I can walk, you know," as she tightened her arms around his neck.

"No, you can limp," he retorted.  "I can _run."_

How they arrived at the crypt so fast, she would never know, but for the pains that shot up her back and shoulders, she was grateful.  She was sure he had not intended to use her as a human hammer to get the door open.  With delicate ease, he set her on a sarcophagus before busying himself creating an adequate barricade.  The job was probably over within seconds, but William spent several minutes occupied finding different objects to blockade the entry.  It was an unsuccessful attempt to war off the patent tension that settled whenever they were alone together.  

When the air became uncomfortably quiet, William drew in a firm breath and sighed.  "There," he said, pretending to admire his work.  "Bloody buggers will 'ave a helluva time gettin' through that door."  She didn't reply, coaxing him with silence to finally turn to her.  Their gaze held fiery for seconds before he could find his voice again.  "You all right, pet?"

"All right," Buffy repeated, though not really hearing the question.  Her eyes glazed over as she studied him, the absence of Angel making it easier for her to admit her uneasiness.  Though she hated being wrong, she absolutely despised being wrong in front of him.  Finally, William's gaze coaxed her back to herself, and she took her head with makeshift repose.  "Yeah.  I'm fine.  Just…hurts."

"Lemme see."  As though the request were the simplest thing in the world.  His words were a stunning echo of Angel's once upon a time.  The night her life had invariably changed.

It was so long ago it might as well have been a dream.  She couldn't imagine ever having been that young.  That naïve.

Looking into William's eyes now, she was reassured with fervor that the demon of the past had no place near the demon of the present.  Her relationship with the peroxide vampire was beyond description, beyond angst.  Pangs of regret could not help but shoot through her to her core every time she met his gaze.  She wanted so much to make things right.

Perhaps that in itself lent to saying goodbye.

"Do you have any…ummm…" She looked around the crypt, disseminating herself with her surroundings.  Despite the discussion they had the other night, she hadn't taken the time to familiarize the change of scenery.  "Towels or that sort of thing?"

"Just the stuff I brought with me," William retorted, moving passed her.  "And whatever Red brought by last night in that bag."  He indicated the unopened sack beside her feet.   "I think Ripper's been makin' her bring me goodies.  Third bloody night she dropped by."  A pause in afterthought.  "She sure as hell better not try tonight.  I'll kill Red if she goes and does something stupid that makes her dead."

Buffy chortled favorably, earning a grin in reply.  Then he disappeared in shadows, emerging a few minutes later with a worn sheet and pillow.  When she arched a brow, he stopped and grinned, almost impishly.  The sight made her coil with warmth.  It was so Spike.  "Hey, just cause it looks like a sodding crypt doesn't mean I can't pretend I'm not at some fancy hotel."  He nodded to the sarcophagus.  "Know it's uncomfortable, luv, but lie down on your stomach.  I'm gonna try to clean you up."   

Skillfully, as though preparing for a massage, William spread the sheet across the slab of stone and stepped back, allowing her room to pass.  The air was thick and she knew he could hear her heart pounding.  Then he was out of her line of perception, though she could feel his eyes on her, peeling away layers of skin—seeing her to the utmost exposure.  Buffy closed her eyes and pursed her lips, waiting breathlessly until she heard him near.  The step was heavy and pronounced.  He purposefully alerted her to his intentions, allowing time to wiggle away, even if it was against her own good.

He was afraid to touch her.

Hands at the hem of her shirt and an audible gulp.  Another pause before he stretched the fabric and tugged it upward, inhaling deeply as the wound was exposed.  

"Oh, luv," he said finally, hand caressing her back absently.  "Hold tight.  I'll be right back."

Then he was gone, leaving her cold and alone.  The tomb fell deathly silent with his absence.  Eerie and frightening.  Buffy closed her eyes again and exhaled, silently cursing Angel for being so damned logical.  Sure, coming here was probably in her best interest, but if they managed to survive the night without suffering a series of emotional breakdowns, it would be too soon.

When he returned, she didn't know.  In the afterglow of their fight, she thought she had dozed off for a few seconds.  She stirred violently to the present when something moist collided with the angry spot on her back, and she nearly bucked in surprise.  A hand was at her shoulder immediately, calming her.  Buffy tensed, then relaxed, and he spoke as he dipped the washcloth into the basin once more.

"Shh, pet.  'S all right."  Water dribbled down her sides.  Sensations soared and collided.  She had never thought something so simple could give such pleasure.

When he finished, William delicately straightened her shirt, inhaled and stood.  How he could remain so composed was beyond her.  Buffy swallowed hard, aching with need.

"You're going to have to take your trousers off," he said, voice shaking.  "Need to see that cut."

With a weary nod, the Slayer pushed herself up.  She drew in a breath and turned over, hands going to her waist and sliding her jeans down her legs.  Victoriously, she watched William's eyes flutter closed with an appreciative huff of air.  When the job was done and he looked at her again, a shiver of recognition shimmied up her spine.  She knew that look well.  It was held with restraint but no less existent.  Eyes glossy—lids heavy with desire.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke.  "Turn around."

Buffy nodded and lay back on her stomach, twitching as he neared again.  A considerable pause and he did not touch her, though the heavy, unneeded breaths heaving from his chest did not stop.  Over and over again.

"It's getting to you, isn't it?" she asked softly.

A beat.  "Huh's that?"

"The blood.  It's getting to you."

Another brief interlude.  "No, luv.  It's fine.  It's—"

"Go ahead."  Boisterously, Buffy lifted her leg in the direction she assumed was near his mouth, only to be pushed away harshly.

"No."

"William."  A sharp intake of breath and he emitted a coo of pleasure, however inhibited.  "Please."

This time there was no refusal.  There was nothing.  The vampire exhaled deeply, as though his unlife depended on it.  Then the touch came, softly, as though afraid she would retract the request voiced at her own lips.  When she did not, he finally growled a deep acknowledgement of sweet surrender, lowering his head to catch the blood escaping the wound with his tongue.  Buffy could not help but moan.  His touch was feather-light, cautious, loving, and fearful.  And sinfully erotic.

Then the taste got to him, overpowering gentlemanly reserve and drawing out long repressed primal instincts.  She felt his ridges emerge, fangs delicately pricking her skin.  Her failure to retreat pushed him over some final threshold, and he clamped down on her leg, not biting, but suckling as much of her essence into his mouth as possible.  Rumbles of approval scratched at his throat, lips and tongue tasting greedily, hand coming to rest on her thigh until he could draw no more.  Finally, he released her, licking the wound closed before moving up her body and raising her shirt to give the other abrasion the same treatment. 

And she couldn't take it anymore.  With a strangled cry, Buffy twisted in his grasp, straddled his lap and brought his lips to hers—not allowing him even enough time for reconsideration to slip from game face.  There was no restraint in his response: he kissed her eagerly, hungrily, his mouth devouring hers.  The swell that had been accumulating in her chest finally triggered and exploded.  Her teeth scraped his lips and tongue, teasing the jagged points of his fangs mercilessly.  An inward roar of triumph as William moaned into her, unable to stop his hands from exploring her, holding her face to his.  All the sweet richness of a first kiss combined with the agonized frustration of being separated so long soared with liberated ecstasy.  She felt him unquestionably harden against her, and whimpered her compliance as she reached to draw his shirt over his head.

The action alone sent him flying back from the pivotal edge, and he tore his mouth away, panting as he captured her wrists to sharply halt the advance.  William closed his eyes, composing himself, shaking his head with a stifled sob.  "No," he said softly.  "I can't, luv.  I—"  

"It's all right," she assured him.  "I want to."  With a cautious breath, she reached uncertainly to grasp him, and was stopped with authority.

"I don't," he returned, unable to maintain hold on her eyes.  "Please…"

Buffy's lip quivered.  "You don't want me?"

"Oh, pet.  It's not that.  You know it's not."  Tentatively, he used the grip on her wrist to guide her where she needed no further verification, but drew away when the sensation became too overwhelming.  He edged away from her and made a futile attempt to stop breathing.  "See?  It's not that.  But we can't.  We can't, and you know we can't."

Tears clouded her eyes as she nodded her reluctant understanding, scooting further away to allow him space.  "I know," she replied raucously.  "But I'm so tired of doing what I'm supposed to!   I want…I want—"

He put a finger to her lips with a sad smile and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead.  "Won't fix anything," he rationalized.  "It'd make things worse when this bloody mess is over with and Ripper and I go back to the old country."  The vampire sighed.  "Sex doesn't solve problems, pet, especially ones like ours.  If anything, it'd just make a whole walloping bunch of new achies to deal with."

There was no way this person had ever been Spike.  The words sent Buffy down a labyrinth of still balancing error and confusion.  Stunned, she shook her head.  "Wow.  You're really not him.  Every time I think I've got it, you go and blow me clear out of the water."

William chuckled.  "I know.  Never thought I'd pass up a good shag, either.  But soul's got me all responsible-like.  Gotta think."

Buffy smiled dejectedly.  "And smart."  A quaking breath shuddered through her.  "You're right, of course.  We can't.  Not after…" When pain crossed his features and his eyes darted downward, she reached for his chin and forced him to meet her gaze.  "Not _that.  _I'm over…well…yeah, I guess.  I'll never be completely over it, but right now, I'm as close as I've ever been."

William nodded without conviction and fought to look down.  "You're much stronger than me," he whispered.  "You astound me."

A reverent though brief grin crossed her lips.  "I'm not," she retorted.  "I just pretend to be.  One way or another, this will end up tearing me apart."

The vampire nodded again and sighed.  "It'll take both of us with it," he returned.  With a slightly uncomfortable fidget, he reached and handed her the discarded pants on the floor.  "Best to slide back into these."

Buffy coiled the material in her grasp and blinked in surprise as he turned his back to allow her privacy.  As if he hadn't seen her a thousand times before.  As if minutes earlier they hadn't been making out like freshman, feeling each other up and seconds away from forfeiting all control.  She was touched beyond approach, and more confused than ever.     

When she was ready, she touched his shoulder and edged forward to lie down again.  He did not shrink back when she reached for him, bringing him to lie behind her.  Body to body, his chest against her back.  It was only when she guided his arm across her stomach that he began to struggle.

"Don't," she pleaded, her voice rendering his body helpless to do anything but warm up to her.  "Just…lie here with me."

There was nothing for a minute, then a sigh of relaxation fanned her ear, arm around her middle constricting with the reassurance of her presence.  A few more minutes before his fingers started to play against her skin.  Soft, feathery touches that made her ache with ungratified need.

"Are you real?" the vampire asked softly, running his hand through her hair, down her cheek and back again.

"I don't know," Buffy whimpered.  Fatigue settled in to claim her, and she fought it.  Sleep had no right to rob her of these sensations.  Not when the moments shared now would be the last forever.  However, she could not help the droop of her eyes, the blinks that became harder to recover from.  "Who is anymore?"

There was no reply.  Nothing for her to focus on to remain awake.  When William ran his hand over her eyes, she succumbed to exhaustion and fell promptly asleep.


	18. Nightly Interlude

**Chapter Seventeen**

"Spi…William?"

"Mmm, pet?"

"You asleep?"

"Would I be talkin' if I was asleep?" An amused grumble and protective squeeze.  "Couldn't sleep if I tried.  Coffee hasn't got anything against Slayer blood."

"What time is it?"

"Dunno.  But I'd wager you've been out for a couple hours."

"That's the disadvantage of dozing off on stone."  Buffy chuckled and stretched.  Their position surprisingly hadn't altered since falling asleep, nor had William's delicate exploration of her face, hair—pretty much whatever he could reach without stirring her.  "Wake up too easily."

"Yeah.  Prolly doesn't help much that I'm not much use as a bed warmer."  The vampire rumbled in dry amusement.  "You'd think I'd be used to this after a century, but I'm not.  Close to four years in a comfy bed and I'm bloody well housetrained."

"Then why aren't you in a motel?"

"Ripper tried but I said no.  Doesn't work that way.  'Course, I came 'ere thinkin' I could pull off the whole Big Bad thing pretty well.  Didn't figure everyone and their cousin would know before the first week was over."

A week.  Had it only been a week?  It seemed lifetimes had passed since Dawn stormed into the Magic Box and announced the platinum vampire was back in town.  Never had she suspected she could go from pretending to hate him to snuggling beside his undead body in a matter of days.  Every conversation they had seemed to stretch a thousand years.

She had to fight to remember the person that held her was more or less a stranger in so many regards, but she reached a point where that failed to matter.  Whoever he was, she liked him.  Loved him?  Maybe.  The notion wasn't impossible.

Drawing in a breath, Buffy reached her hand to cover his where it lay across her stomach.  "Do you regret coming back?"

The man behind her shuffled uncomfortably.  "Mmm, now isn't that a loaded question?  Don't rightly know, pet.  If you'd asked me that last night, I woulda said yes in a heartbeat."  He paused to reflect the irony of the statement, but not for long.  "I s'pose now, though, that everythin' 'ere's been for the best.  No matter how much it hurts."

"Do you miss London?"

"Yeh.  Well, not so much as I've missed…" William trailed off, unable to complete the obvious, and she correspondingly gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.  "But that's mostly 'cause I know I'll see it again." 

The words were a well-aimed barb and struck rightly in the heart, however unintentional.  She didn't let it throw her off course, though, and countered with another inquiry.  "What was your favorite thing to do there?"

"Depended on the mood, luv," he replied.  "Though most nights, or those I wasn't spendin' in that blasted library researchin' demony mumbo jumbo, I went down to this café with my notebook.  People fascinate me, pet.  Even more than before.  I'd go there and watch them live out whatever lie they were caught in, waitin' for the one that'd inspire me to open my book and jot down a few verses."  He chuckled dryly.  "Though more often than not, I'd end up writin' you.  I've written you every way from Thursday and still you come to me—a faithful muse—begging for more poetry."

Buffy felt heat rising to her cheeks, and knew he sensed it as well.  The thought that she could instigate such fervor shook her beyond words.

"What's with the twenty questions?" William asked when she didn't respond.

"I told you in the graveyard that I wanted to know you," she replied.  "If I get annoying, you have permission to thwap me."

There was a warm pause.  "Not annoying, luv," he retorted, voice throaty.  "What else do you want to know?"

"What was the first poem you wrote?"

A hangdog grin tackled his boyish features.  She found the humbled manifestation thoroughly adorable.  "It was a sonnet.  Or rather, an attempt at a sonnet.  Maybe the only thing in the bleedin' book that wasn't about you."

"Which one?  Do you have it memorized?"

William nodded against her and settled before realizing the question implied she expected a recitation.  "Oh," he said, composing himself.  "You've read it, if Red's speakin' the truth.  Not my favorite work, but Ripper seemed to think it was all right.

_'The day begins when night has set the sun_

_And vanished have noon's hours empty crowds_

_Rays of sunshine wither until they're gone_

_Setting the stars adjust behind the clouds_

_The taste of blood runs old against the tongue_

_Heartstrings pull tightly on a blackened soul_

_My deadened spirit never really won_

_And pulls me back into a restless lull_

_Of course the light will once again prevail_

_To chase the dark before it breaks the dawn_

_Unto my mind this light will doth impale_

_Until the dark returns to claim its spawn_

_Thus trapped forever here I will remain_

_To find some sanction from this endless pain'_

"Like I said, luv.  'S all right for a beginner, but—"

A muffled sob tore his voice in two, rendering him to a startled speechlessness.  With an ache of desperation, Buffy twisted in his arms so she was facing him, pulling him down for a chaste, comforting embrace.

"You liked it, then?" William asked, struggling.  The hands that held her trembled, caressing her softly, as though she was liable to break at any minute.

"That one always made me cry."  There were tears in her eyes.  Good tears, however painful to reflect.  "I just…knew, or felt…just…every time I read that…"

"Cor, luv," he replied, awkwardly.  "'S really not—"

"It speaks to me."

An emotional silence settled over them, encompassing with empty comfort.  They were twisted inelegantly—William's arm now trapped under her torso from her spontaneous change of position, but he didn't seem to mind.  His free hand had finally ceased the gentle caresses to her face.  It was harder when he looked at her.  When he could see that she was real.

Buffy tentatively placed a hand on his forehead, reveling when he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.  "I'm afraid," she whispered.

"So am I."  The deep tenor of his voice sent shivers up her spine.  There was no offer of elaboration.  It didn't seem to matter anymore.

"I had a dream that the Master killed you."

William's eyes edged open, revealing no sense of alarm.  "Won't happen," he said softly.  "I'm a tough git."

"Yeah, and he's a Master.  The Master killed me, and I'm reasonably tough.  Hell, I kick ass.  I don't think being tough has anything to do with it."

"Not the same bloke," he retorted.  "An' that won't happen, either.  Not while I'm bloody standin'."  A pause as he reflected his words and the anxious beat that skipped in turn.  He offered a grin of compensation.  "Guess then that he'll get neither of us.  I won't let him get you."  His hold on her tightened.  "Even if I hafta die to ensure that…but I won't."  
  


The Slayer shook her head.  "You can't promise me that, so don't try."

"Just did."  William leaned forward and kissed her forehead.  "An' I always keep my promises."  At her skeptical look, he sighed with a slight smile.  "'Sides, you've had Slayer dreams that 'aven't amounted to diddly, 'aven't you?"

"Yeah, but they've…most of them come true in one way or another."

The vampire tugged his arm free from beneath her, propping his head against his fist.  "Right, then.  What happened?"

Buffy bit her lip.  "Ummm…it started in the bathroom."  He winced, and she did too, in affect.  "I…ummm, well, you know what happened.  Only there was someone else there.  It was…you.  Like two you's.  This was before I knew that you had…umm, a soul, so I think that was trying to tell me…that.  You attacked yourself, or you attacked Spike and beat him to a pulp.  Then it all went away back to Acathla, and my sword fight with Angel.  Only it was you, and not Angel.  I was about to kill you, but I…couldn't.  I kissed you instead.  Then the Master killed you, bit me…you said something like 'Make me what I was.'  I can't remember everything, but that much is vivid."

A long pause followed before William could tear himself away, breathlessly, eyes darting as he struggled to find his voice.  "'S what I said to that demon in Africa.  After I passed the last test.  Asked him to make me what I was.  Well, not quite what I was, but close enough."  His evasiveness made her scowl, but when he finally granted her his eyes, the manifest concern wiped aggravation away.  "I'm more worried about that last part.  But it won't happen.  Not while I'm here.  An' the only way you'll get rid of me is if Harris decides to box me up an' ship me back to England."

"Don't make jokes," she warned.  "I haven't had reason to worry like this since I dreamt that Drusilla killed Angel."

The admission left her lips so thoughtlessly that it sent a gasp of surprise through her system.  She covered her mouth with exceeding astonishment, drinking in the similar storm that thundered behind his eyes in impossible recognition.  Tears came, however unwanted.  The additional accompaniment of forgiveness and love.  However impossible this all was.  How painful.

"But," William choked a minute later.  "He's 'ere. All Peaches to share his bloody logic.  So you see…nothin' to worry about."

"That was right before he lost his soul."

"Don't worry about that, either," he said sharply.  "I made Ripper bring along insurance.  Fought for this bloody soul, an' I aim to keep it."

"What?"  Buffy blinked.

"I know you Scoobies 'ave the curse locked away somewhere.  You 'ave to.  Can't risk Peaches gettin' a happy and goin' all wonky again.  Figure you all could curse me, if this chap has a way of stealin' what's mine."

The Slayer drew in a sharp breath.  "But it took Willow to do that.  Curse you?  None of us have that kind of power.  I—"

"Red does."

"No.  She—"

"She's been workin' mojo ever since she got back from London," William said, and she felt a sudden rush of heated anxiety.  "Oh no.  Don't worry.  She works it in moderation.  Worked it to keep me from runnin' for the sodding hills when I saw her the other night.  She's not evil, my Red.  But she can't stop bein' a witch any more than I can stop bein' a demon."

Buffy shook her head, not in denial as much as surprise.  Betrayal?  No, she couldn't feel that, either.  "Why didn't she tell us?"

"What?  An' 'ave you watch her back like she's some bleeding time bomb?  Everything's been rosy, hasn't it?  When was the last time you really worried about her?"

"It's been a while," the Slayer conceded.  "She's Willow."

"Red," he agreed.  "Anyway, I didn't know that till I got back, but I figured if she couldn't do it then Ripper could.  Or someone else in this bloody town. On the Hellmouth, there has to be more than one witch in the neighborhood."

"You think you would just do it all over again?" Buffy asked softly.  "Willingly?"

William sighed and shrugged.  "I sure as hell hope so, pet.  You've gone all out and told me you loved 'im.  An' I know he wouldn't pass up a good toss an' tumble.  If he knows what's good for you, he'd go to Ripper an' 'ave someone work the curse."

It was weird to hear him refer to himself in the third person.  Similarly, it was disconcerting not to know what she preferred.  Colliding feelings for William confused the love she felt for Spike.  Could she give the soulless vampire up again if it came down to it?  Would she want to?  Cradled now in William's embrace, she began to have her doubts, and a rush of guilt soared in repose.

Giles's reassurance calmed her warring conscious.  They were so alike, yet so different.  Where did Spike end and his counterpart begin?

"Tell me something no one else knows," Buffy whispered, running her forefinger across his lip.

William closed his eyes at the tenderness and turned his face downward, hand moving to capture hers.  His thumb unconsciously drew small, feather-light patterns on her palm.  Something heavy had landed on him.  "About two years ago," he said seriously, "I contacted the Council.  It was after one of your phone chatties with Ripper.  I had taken a walk earlier, just after sunset.  Saw a girl that looked…I thought it was you for a minute.  I was so broken then.  Can't say much 'as improved, but Ripper used to not be able to even say your name, else I'd get upset.  I don't know what but…it hit me extra hard that night.  I asked the Council to send me some of that…dunno what it's called.  Killer of the dead poison."

A sharp pain ran up Buffy's spine, and she closed her eyes tightly.  In a flash, she saw Angel falling to the ground, arrow run through his chest.  The scar on her neck throbbed in effect.  "Oh God," she gasped.  "You—"

"Couldn't take it anymore, luv." William sighed and shook his head.  "Council was more than willin' to oblige me.  Never had them send me somethin' so fast.  I took what they gave me to the roof of the library an' stood there for what felt like forever.  Just lookin' at the stars.  An' I knew you were out there.  Somewhere.  Under the same sky, maybe seein' the same constellations I was.  Maybe lookin' at the moon.  Maybe fightin' a vamp or takin' your sister to some school thing.  An' then I knew that killin' myself was the coward's way out.  For everything.  What I did…what I almost…I deserved to live in a world with you in it.  With you livin' happy without me there, mucking it up."  Absently, he pressed his lips to her hand, still clutched tightly in his.  "If I killed myself, it would've made the whole thing in vain.  An' I deserve everythin' I've got.  I deserve more than what I've got."  He sighed again.  "Threw the stuff over the side of the library, an' went to work the next day like nothin' had happened.  Ripper never knew."  Buffy didn't realize she was crying until he released her hand to wipe the tears away.  "I didn't tell you that to make you sad, pet," he said a minute later.  "Or to…I just wanted to let you know that nothin'll prevent me from doin' what I came 'ere to do."   

"I still don't understand," she sobbed, tears running freely down her cheeks, despite his efforts.

"What?"

"Everything!  I don't understand any of it, and I can't.  I'm so sorry, William.  Spike.  Whoever you are.  I—"

The tenderness of his touch was retracted with a fiery growl, as though her pain stung his skin.  "Don't be sorry," he snapped.  "Don't ever be sorry."

"I can't help it!  I see what I made you—"

He tugged viciously at her wrist, pulling her off her side so he was looking down at her, eyes flashing with intent and lasting heartache.  "I did it.  No one made me.  I wouldn't take it back for anything.  Understand, luv?  I'm 'ere now by choice.  'Cause I want to be."

"Can't I be sorry?" she fired back.  "I've never said you weren't wrong.  You were.  But God, so was I.  I was so wrong for everything."

There was no way they would ever reach an agreement on the matter.  William looked away, hand subconsciously returning to her face, drawing renegade strands of hair from her eyes.  "That year wasn't made for people to be right," he concluded.  "I blundered up so bloody much…took you a long with me to a place you should never 'ave seen.  I did wrong by you, Slayer."

Buffy suddenly grasped his wrist and his eyes shot back to her.  "You didn't do anything that I didn't let you," she whispered, hushing him with a look before he could object.  "And at the end, you reacted to all the abuse I gave you.  Stringing you along like…I was so wrong.  Can't you see that?"

At that, he grew angry, sitting up with a start, teeth bared menacingly at her.  Though they knew the threat was nonexistent, it startled her still.  "Don't you dare!" he growled.  "Don't you dare say you were to blame for that.  I _attacked _you, Buffy!  When I think about what I coulda done—"

"But you didn't," she returned.  There was a familiar edge to her voice.  "You didn't—"

"I could have.  And then where would we be?  Certainly not here.  Not 'aving this bleedin' conversation.  You would've staked me good and proper a thousand times over, an' if you 'aden't, I sure as hell would have.  I can't stand to think of…if I 'aden't left that night, I woulda done something drastic."  William pushed himself off the ledge and hopped to the floor, beginning another characteristic pace.

The continuous avoidance of this issue effectively wore her down to her last nerve.  "Will you stop it?  I'm so tired of having the same discussion with you.  Get over it, Sp—William." The ferocity behind his eyes blared briefly even as her storm began to calm.  "William," she said softly, stepping forward.  "I can understand why you don't want to get involved.  Trust me, it hurts but I know it's for the best.  We can't…but you can't keep blaming yourself for something you didn't do."

"But what if I had?" he growled, though there was no venom behind it.  "What—"   

"I don't care about what _could _have happened," Buffy whispered, taking another step forward.  "We'll never know, okay?  All I know is that you're punishing yourself over and over for something you can't be held credible for.  And even so, I forgave Spike.  I forgave the demon.  I _love _the goddamn demon.  It's gross and disgusting and wrong but no less true.  I fell for a monster.  A monster that hurt me and killed hundreds, if not thousands of others.  He gave you to me because of what _he _did, not what you did."  The final step forward brought them a hair apart.  "Not you."

A moment froze between them, leaving the air stinging of accusations and trades, self-remorse and loss.  Mingled breaths hung soundlessly, eyes daring the other to look away.  But they remained connected: locked in a moment of reluctant complacency.  A pivotal stage filled with a cast that forgot the lines.  Two battling souls struggling to find the pathway to some sort of personal fulfillment.

It was William who growled first, a sweet ring of his surrender as he grasped her shoulders and brought her fiercely to meet his mouth.  The kiss was cautious and daring, brutal and tender.  A gateway opened with a flood of relinquished anxieties—and they tasted each other with trepidation.  And just as he initiated it, the vampire pulled back, breathing harshly, bringing his hand to stroke her cheek, but not to push her away.

"You've been talkin' with Ripper, haven't you?" he asked with mirth.

Surprise had not vacated her cheeks.  The intensity he exhibited revealed more than he would have liked.  Shared more than he was ready to disclose, and she knew it.  "A bit." Buffy's tongue darting out to lick her lower lip.  

Likewise, whatever she saw he picked up without hindrance.  Damn him and his bothersome prudence.  William smiled sadly, shaking his head, berating himself.  "I shouldn't have done that," he said, hands retracting to her shoulders, caressing her skin with his thumbs.  "Sorry."

"No, I—"

"We better get some rest.  The faster morning comes, the better."  The vampire sighed emphatically.  "This is making me crazy."

"Me, too."  With reluctance, she took a step backward.  

"If things were different—"

"But they're not.  I get that.  I told you."  Heaving a breath, Buffy paced around him and reclaimed their cooling spots on the sarcophagus.  "But for tonight, can we just pretend the world doesn't exist outside this crypt?  Just…I need…"

His eyes met her with understanding before he looked down and offered a small nod.  And without needing any sense of verification, William moved toward her, taking the proffered space beside her.  When he was relaxed, he lifted an arm and invited her head to his shoulder.  She felt him jitter beneath her when soft tears meshed his skin through his shirt.  It was inevitable—she couldn't hold them back, just as he couldn't refrain from caressing her with empty consolation.  They snuggled: a sort of painful comfort.  A moment not likely to repeat itself.

For the second time that night, she fell into deep sleep.


	19. Five Card Stud

**Chapter Eighteen**

First attempt unsuccessful.  Second attempt aggravating.  The hastily constructed barricade held well against single blows, but the force of an angry vampire could not be denied long.  Within minutes, the crypt door flung open violently, motion charged with angst.  It was ardent and unmistakable; the signal to warn whatever resided inside that company had arrived.  There was no stirring of acknowledgement—the two occupants far and away in deep, resounding slumber.  When no one answered the call, three figures pushed through the entry, peering forward with lingering trepidation.

"They're in here," Angel decided almost instantly.  There was no way he could know based solely on visual verification.  The crypt was dark, lacking in windows, and the nonexistent light from behind did little to help.  For the first time since leaving earlier that evening, he regretted not bringing a flashlight.  His words, however, were the only confirmation his colleagues required.  Without awaiting invitation, Willow and Giles piled inward, squinting through the darkness.

"Here," the Watcher offered, striking a match.  "There should be something to your right…an oil lamp or—"

"Found it."  No sooner had he spoken did the crypt illuminate, revealing the absentee Slayer and bleached vampire yards behind its warmth.  They were perched on a sarcophagus, sleeping peacefully in one another's embrace.  Buffy had claimed William more or less as her personal pillow, mostly draped over him and secured there by a protective arm across the small of her back.  They looked serene together—enjoying the quiet even through the subconscious. 

"Aww," Willow appreciatively cooed.  "How cute!"  She turned to jab Giles with her elbow.  "And you were all worried.  I _told _you he'd look after her."

"Excuse me, I believe it was you that awoke me at three this morning in hysterics because you had not yet heard from her."  The Watcher indicated the sleeping pair with a nod, face indistinguishable, but it he looked mostly pleased, if not relieved.  "I-I figured she and William were together.  He wouldn't let her get too far away."  The soaring relief flying behind his eyes contradicted his words, and he cleared his throat disdainfully.  "Besides, I am the Watcher.  I am allowed to be concerned."

"What?  And as the best friend, I don't have that luxury?  Well fine, Mr. Antsy Pants.  And for the record, I believe you are the _former _Watcher."

Neither looked to Angel.

As if sensing their presence, William's eyes opened.  It was not a prolonged awakening; once stirred, he was as alert as one could hope.  He fought a yawn, attempted to stretch and realized that he was fastened securely in place by most of the dozing Slayer.  A smile flickered across his lips, and he ran a hand through her hair before thinking to turn to the audience stationed in the middle of the crypt.  He reflected no surprise at their attendance, rather regarded them with a sleepy nod.  "Mornin' all."  He turned and lightly tapped Buffy on the shoulder.  "Rise 'n shine, luv.  We've got company."

"Do you have any conceivable idea what time it is?"  Angel demanded with dry irritation as the Slayer began to awake.

"Quarter after 'I don't give a bloody crap'?  No clock in 'ere, mate.  But I'm getting some rumblies in the stomach region."

The other vampire would have replied had the woman lying across William's chest not finally sat up, yawned, and realized she was on display.  A sweeping look of recollection claimed her features, but the best she could offer was an impish grin.  "Hey guys," she said sleepily.  "When did you get here?"

"A few minutes ago," Giles replied.  The air of discomfort didn't lift until Buffy pulled back the sheet to reveal they were still fully clothed.  "We were concerned."

"Some of us were," Willow agreed.  "Others thought you two were just fine."

The Slayer blinked.  "Worried?  Wait…what time is it?"

"Close to 6:30," Angel replied.

"No wonder I'm so tired."

However, William had caught his grandsire's fiery gaze—the one that wasn't as much angry as relieved, not as much hurt as discomfited.  And without seeking the obvious, he understood.  "I think he means at night, pet."

Her eyes widened.  "No way.  Really?"

"Yeah, we didn't know where you were," Willow retorted, glancing briefly to Giles.  "Then Angel dropped by and told us what happened last night.  Are you two all right?"

Buffy nodded, throwing her legs over the side of the sarcophagus.  "Yeah.  I got a little cut up, but no big.  Same old same old.  I must've been sleepier than I thought."  It was then she paused, that moment that remaining slumber wore off and left with it all the memories of the day before.  Something powerful took command of her, and she glanced sharply to William with newfound enlightenment.  It was a look impossible for bystanders to read.  

And all at once, the atmosphere was uncomfortable—tight and confining.  Buffy tore her eyes away, looking to Willow with new insistence.  "Is it all right to leave now?"  There was desperation in her tone that might have been mistaken for a need of fresh air had she not immediately darted a glance in the blond vampire's direction and looked away when she saw he was studying her.  It was direct counterpoint to the moment of tenderness they had seemingly interrupted.  New sheepishness mingled.  Something had obviously passed during the night hours.

"Yeah, I'd say it's all right to leave," Angel offered.  "We didn't run into any trouble on the way here."

"Hate to burst your bubble, but I was leaving whether or not you gave me the go."  Buffy smirked at him and flexed impressively.  "Slayer strength.  Where is everyone?"

"Dawn's with Xander and Anya."  Willow looked impish for a minute.  "She just got back from Brazil.  You know…vengeancy stuff and all.  Oh!  But Dawnie aced her English exam.  Very cool."

William arched a brow.  "Oh, so that's where Demon Girl has been.  I was wonderin'—"

"It was just last night," the Witch corrected with a shrug.  "Anya doesn't really hang out with us that much anymore, but Giles thought she should help because of the…you know…the thing."

The platinum vampire chuckled dryly.  "Just don't let 'er help Little Bit with history," he cautioned.  "Old professors don't fancy the history that really happened."

An odd look of complacency beset Angel's face, and he grinned his concurrence.  "It's called a cover-up for a reason." 

"All right, can we get out of here?"  Buffy stepped forward with recharged haste.  "This place is starting to give me the willies.  And I'm sure Dawn and Xander don't want to miss the explanation about how President Lincoln was in fact a Mahayle demon or whatever."  Without awaiting agreement, she flung Spike's duster over her shoulders and paraded out the door, followed wearily by four.

Willow leaned into Giles and whispered, "What's a Mahayle demon?"

There was a fond smile on his face.  "A Buffyism.  I haven't the faintest."

*~*~*

A manifestly concerned Xander threw open the door and tackled Buffy in the most powerful bear hug she had ever experienced.  "Oh thank God!" he cried.  "We were so worried!"

Bewildered, the Slayer reassuringly pat his back, looking to Willow for help.  "I've been getting that a lot.  Glad to see you, too.  You know, I don't know why everyone's wigging out.  I was with Spike the entire time."

"Yeah.  Precisely _why _I'm wigging out."  His eyes darkened when he caught sight of the three men following her.  "Oh.  Great.  Speak of the Evil Undead…"

"Oh sod off, you bloody ponce," William growled, pushing passed the Slayer and into the basement.  Another invitation that had yet to be revoked, but the surprise and emotional release failed to strike with any impact.  "She was safer with me than she ever woulda been here."  He snickered and looked around, his expression softening.  "Must say the decorating's improved."

Harris heaved an exaggerated breath and pivoted hotly to Buffy.  "Remind me again why he's here?"

"So you finally stop saying 'I told you so'," she retorted.  "It gets old.  I was fine.  I just…got really tired when we got back to the crypt."  Demonstratively, she flexed still-sore muscles.  "Needed a place to rest.  Besides, it was Angel's idea."

By then, everyone had crowded uncomfortably in the basement.  Dawn was dozing on the couch—Anya coming down the stairs and stopping shortly when she saw the population had multiplied.  "Oh good," she drawled disingenuously.  "Everyone's here."

William squinted at her, though he really could reflect no surprise.  The demon's ever-changing hair color was currently bight red—punkish though with odd style.  She snickered when she saw him.  "And I do mean everyone."

"Evenin' luv," he returned, though with disinterest.  It would take Harris a while to accept his altered nature, and he didn't particularly want to relive all the reasons the ponce hated him so much.

It didn't take long.  The next instant, Anya's eyes widened and she rushed down the staircase, staring at him in awe. 

 "My God!" she exclaimed, thoroughly impressed.  "That's amazing!"  

"What?"

Willow chuckled and placed a hand on his arm.  "Spike, you might wanna…you have a little soul showing…right…" She thwapped his chest lightly, "about there."

The Slayer stood aside, regarding the private moment the two enjoyed with growing jealousy.  Despite everything, it was clear the Witch shared something with William that she would never be able to touch.  An understanding—a need for concrete forgiveness.  There was love there.  Love that would never amount to anything beyond a shoulder to cry on and someone to share ideals.  Love that many didn't get to experience.  Love that didn't hurt him to accept.

It would be hard for him to stay away from love like that.  A part of her thrived with hope that similarly shared no likelihood.  With everything they had confessed in the past forty-eight hours, there was no way he could will it so.

"So everyone here knows, then," Anya decided, moving grudgingly.  "Well, that makes it no fun."

The Watcher was attempting to push through the doorway, Angel standing aside.  Behind him, the sky was uncannily dark.  Further signs of an awakening Buffy did not want to consider.  "Ummm, Will?"

In one priceless minute, both William and Willow turned to answer him, voices mingling as one.  "Yes?" They paused to regard each other before mirth inevitably emerged the victor.  The vampire's laugh was deep and authentic—not the half-crazed, half-ego drawn tenor of previous days.  Similarly, the Witch was relaxed and unwound.  A picture of her prior to the stress she went through with Tara.  Willow as she had been and still was, deep inside.

 As they attempted to overcome their humor, Xander turned wide-eyed to Buffy.  "Am I the only one who found that disturbing?"

Giles was still in freeze-frame, waiting the two to return attention to him.  "—iam," he clarified.  "William, Angel and I are adjourning to the public library for some research.  Care to join us?"

To see those ocean blue eyes light up at the prospect of willful study was perhaps one of the more surprising characteristics he had yet revealed.  Even more so than the discovery of his poetry book.  Spike had always had a respect for words—it was foreseeable that he might one day write them down; if the telly broke or he was stuck in a room for several hours with nothing but counting cracks on the ceiling as the alternative.  William needed no such condition to react with delight.  "Bloody right!" he agreed enthusiastically, moving forward until Buffy placed a hand on his forearm.

"Don't go," she asked softly.  "Just tonight.  I'm sure…"

The vampire paused, his face falling, new emotion rendering him vulnerable and exposed.  And just like that, the previously lifted tension spread across the room again—ardent and manifest.  "Luv, I—"

"Never mind, Will," Giles decided for him, striding toward the door alongside Angel.  "Three's a crowd."

In that, William realized what had happened and swore under his breath, tearing away from the Slayer and stalking over to join them.  "Yeah, but I'm the usual half of the original two."

"All the more reason to take the blasted night off," the Watcher retorted.  "You had a busy night last night, from the sound of it, and deserve a break.  So have at it.  We'll see you all in the morning."  And that was that.  They were out of sight, and beyond reach before another word could be expressed.

Exasperated, William wheeled back to Buffy.  Rare irritation flashed behind his eyes, and she understood.  She had used her hold over him to her advantage, and while it was too late to retract her feelings on the matter, such acknowledgement still made her edgy.  Neither wanted to know the true reason of motivation.  It was too painful.  "Listen, luv," he growled.  "I know—" 

The invention came quickly—an excuse, a reason, a method to her madness.  Valid in so many ways, but an excuse nonetheless.  A reason to want him near her.  She stepped forward apologetically.  "My dream."  It was amazing how rapidly his frustration diminished.  "I know you promised me, but…"

He saw, of course, but the weight behind her eyes did him in.  With a sigh, he sealed the space between them, taking her in his arms—innocent and soothing.  How they neared so quickly, she didn't know.  And it didn't matter.  All she cared about was the calming feel of his shoulder under her head, wiping all sense of anxiety away at the smallest touch.      

He was trembling against her, and she understood.  There, in front of her friends, she was allowing him to hold her, stroke her hair with selfless tenderness.  Before the eyes of God and everyone.

Xander twitched.  "I am never going to get this."  His words coaxed them apart, and he took back a step, hands coming up in emphatic neutrality.  "And I don't want to.  You know my opinion but obviously don't care.  No matter what happens as a result of your boinking the undead, you never seem to—"

"Xander.  Chill."  Buffy grudgingly put a few feet between her and the vampire, exhaling deeply.  "Sp…Will and I are not—"

"And that's another thing."  He pointed at the Witch.  "She's Will.  He's Spike.  Don't need anymore weird twilight-zone worthy moments tonight."

"No, she's Red," William replied, flashing her a grin.  "Listen, mate, I really don't give a bloody rip if you like me or not.  Kind of expected it, actually, given everything I've done these past nine years.  Know you 'ave a hard time accepting things.  Well, accept this.  I 'ave a soul.   'S not an excuse, an' I don't try to make it one.  I didn't come 'ere lookin' for forgiveness.  Didn't _want_ to come 'ere at all.  So get off my back, all right?  For reasons beyond me, the lady wants me 'ere, so I'll stay until she asks me to leave."

A voice from behind stole whatever Xander was going to say off his lips.  "Buffy?  Spike?  When did you guys get here?"  Dawn sat up tiredly and rubbed her eyes.

"A few minutes ago," the Slayer replied, relieved for the distraction.  "Hey, I hear big yay for a certain sister of mine acing her English exam?"

The younger Summers brightened and nodded enthusiastically.  "Oh, yeah!  In the bag, baby!"  She grinned proudly and nodded at the vengeance demon.  "And Anya's been helping me with history.  Hey!  Did you know that Abraham Lincoln was actually a Mahayle demon?"

Willow and William blinked slowly and looked to Buffy, wide-eyed.

"What?" she balked.  "Just a lucky guess."

"So what's the plan for tonight?" Dawn jumped up excitedly.  "Do we get to Bronze-it in celebration of the coolness of me and my stunning academics?"

"No," the vampire replied sternly.  "We can't afford to…does no one remember what I said last night?"

"I'm still in phase one: trying to break that habit of daydreaming when you talk." Xander snickered.  "Not working so well."

Dawn slumped and pouted at William, though he remained unmoved.  "Has anyone told you what a party-pooper you've become since you got your soul?"  She wisely ignored the looks of blunt shock she received in affect, sighing and reaching for her backpack.  "I guess we could watch _Streetcar Named Desire, _then.  Lousy play I have to read.  My Gestapo English teacher wants an essay in by tomorrow.  Just to keep the students in line."

The Slayer arched a cynical eyebrow and smiled sweetly.  "So why aren't you reading?  Though they've made stunning advances, technology simply hasn't come up with a visual book.  I doubt watching the flick counts."

Another pout.  Dawn frowned.  "It was Xander's idea.  And please!  Like you were the model student.  The assignment's bogus, anyway.  Besides, ya'll have any other suggestions?"

"If you're going to watch a boring movie, I'm going home," Anya announced, moving for the door before awaiting a reply.  "Think about doing that for your history essay, Dawn.  But stay clear of mating rituals.  You don't want to be near a Mahayle orgasm."  Everyone stared at her blankly.  "Have a great night!"

"Did anyone else just go to a bad place?" Xander asked when he found words, consequentially comforted by a series of nods.

Willow bit her lip in frustration.  "I still wanna know what a Mahayle demon is!"

Dawn didn't react—she had located the film from the recesses of her backpack.  "So," she said, holding it up.  _"Streetcar, _anyone?"

Revisiting a reading requirement from the climactic senior year was the last thing on anyone's priority list, but the night was desperately lacking in things to do.  Reluctant acceptance stingily followed.  Xander nodded as he snatched the video away.  "Why not?" he drawled, popping it into the VCR.  "Who would rather be Bronzing it when we have a good healthy helping of Southern hospitality?"

Buffy plopped down on the sofa, wiggling over enough room for William to join her.  It was second nature already, just as comforting as the arm he draped over her shoulder, drawing her closer to his chest.  If anyone thought to question the sudden chumminess between them, they wisely refrained.  

"I don't remember what this play's about," the Slayer admitted sheepishly.

"That's because you decided you had no third block senior year," Willow observed, earning a sharp glare.  "What?  It's the truth!"

"Let's not credit any of that to world saveage," she returned with a snicker.  "Forget the Mayor and Faith were having a hay-day plotting the big darkness."

Dawn gasped in mock horror.  "You let _that _get in the way of Tennessee Williams?  Shame on you!"

The Slayer poked her tongue out at her sister and sighed contentedly against William's protective embrace.  Wisely, they ignored the uncomfortable shifting of Xander, who looked more confused than offended.

As the opening credits started, he leaned into Willow and whispered, "They're not…together, are they?  Now that he has a soul?"

The Witch shrugged.  "Dunno.  And honestly, I don't care.  When was the last time you saw Buffy that relaxed?  And Spike…he doesn't look ready to stake himself.  The only thing I'm worried about is what they're going to do when this is all over and Giles is ready to take him home."  She sighed.  "As long as neither of them get hurt, it's all right by me."

"Yeah," Harris complied, only half paying attention.  "What are the chances of that?"

"Slim to none, but he deserves it."  At the inevitable oncoming rebuttal, Willow turned to him sternly and frowned.  "He deserves it.  Now lay off.  Vivien Leigh's about to debut."

The movie ensued without much attention from the spectators, save Dawn who jotted down conclusive notes following every scene.  Conversation blossomed, despite the girl's attempts to keep everyone quiet.  Every now and then, Willow would brighten in recognition and persuade everyone to pay attention for a few minutes before remembering that literature was not a dominant concentration in the company she shared.  Only William remained constantly considerate and very interested in what she had to say.  Someone whose passion for books rivaled her own.

When the movie neared the climax, the Witch drew in a gasping breath and froze.  "Oh God!" she cried.  "We should turn it off.  Turn it off!  Now now now now…"

But it was too late.  On screen, Marlon Brando was grinning maliciously at Vivien Leigh, drawing in a look of brutal pleasure at her horror of reflection.  Then he was nearing her, intentions all too clear, and the room stilled with sudden mortification.  Buffy went rigid and the few breaths emanating from her companion ceased completely.  The grip on her shoulder tightened then was released, and a possessed William rose to his feet, quivering with unkempt rage.

A shadow of the control he had spent so long mastering.  The fighting glimmer as he struggled to contain himself, losing inexorably, trembling with sudden force.  Flashes sparked behind his eyes: dangerous and consuming.  And at last the dynamite cracked, and he forfeited every strain of his soundness to the growing fire within.  "God!" he spat, shaken in balance by unstoppable tremors.  "You're sick!  Bloody ponce!  Right evil bastard!"  With vehemence, he let out a sob and kicked the television.  The on-screen insinuation of rape had already passed, not revealing much but enough.  William had not calmed.  With every kick, he lost more reserve, not caring that the picture was starting to crack and fuzz.  Not caring about anything—hardly aware that he was being watched dumbly by people too shocked to move.  "Evil!"  Kick.  "Disgusting!"  Kick.  "Sadistic bastard!"

He was yanked aside by a visibly frightened Buffy before he could destroy the television completely.  Their eyes met and he read the fear behind hers, the fear and remorse initiated by every fiber of his existence.  And without a word, he burst into tears, sinking to his knees and wrapping his arms around her legs.  He pulled her to him tightly, uncaring, uncontrolled.  "I'm so sorry!" he sobbed.  "I'm so sorry I'm so sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…"

Buffy was overwhelmed, frozen in time.  The astonished, blank faces of her friends mended as one.  There was only her and William.  Nothing beyond the sobbing vampire latched onto her, crying a thousand muffled apologies, though no amount of pardon would ever make things better.

She felt she would kill Xander if he dared make a mocking of this, but the expression on his face suggested anything but ridicule.

When at last he began to calm, Buffy tugged William to his feet.  He had vamped out in the midst of grief, cold, wet ridges against her face, even as she attempted to wipe his tears away.  The body quivering against hers was moments from collapse, breathing ragged breaths and leaning dependently against her.

The image was more than she could stand, and with fervor, she took hold of his chin and coaxed his eyes to hers.  He had to see.  He had to see there was no hate, no anger, nothing but swelling emotion just waiting to combust from her chest.  Their mouths fused together at the same time, irrevocably drawn beyond control, the need to feel apologies, to taste the power of forgiveness.  Long, hot, desperate kisses—fueled by the promise of absolution.  Clemency.  William moaned into her, for the first time not holding back, clutching on her shoulders as though something threatened to drive her away from him.  His incisors scraped at her lips—fangs first then blunt teeth as he reeled the demon inward.  And the tears wouldn't stop coming.

Finally she pulled away, gasping deeply even as he latched onto her—not pushing her aside with further reprimands of why they couldn't, why they could never.  Instead, he held her resolutely to him, burying his face in her neck and drawing in her scent.  He was firm against her, despite the shivers commanding his body.  Cautiously, his mouth challenged her, tasting fevered flesh with his tongue as she held him solid against her.  From her throat to her collarbone, drawing as much of her between his lips as possible.  "I'm sorry," he whispered miserably.  "Oh God, Buffy, I'm so sorry."

"I know," she gasped.  "It's all right.  It's all right."  Diplomatically, she took his face in her hands and leveled his eyes with hers.  "I love you."

He balked instantly and once again began to struggle, though his efforts could not be classified as even remotely half-hearted.  "You don't," he objected sternly.  "No.  No matter what.  I'm not—"

Buffy grumbled in aggravation and tugged his head closer.  "Will you ever just…open your eyes and look at me?  I love you, William.  Trust, me I don't want to…but, you make it so hard.  So hard not to."  She stomped her foot, joining him in his tears, knowing she had to stop before she hurt them both beyond words.  And yet she couldn't.  Those eyes demanded compensation.  He needed to hear the truth.  The whole truth.  No matter how it hurt.  "God!  I hate this!  With as much as I try…I tell myself, I repeat everything that I said to…everything that you did, everything that _I _did…and it doesn't work!  It kills me, but I love you.  All components of you.  Man and demon alike."  Tears were clouding his vision again, his lips quivering in that oh-so-tempting way.  "I love you," she repeated, and she sealed her words with another kiss.  Tender this time—soft and passionate.  When she pulled away, there was reverence behind his eyes, passing with neutral understanding.  And at last, she had what she wanted.  A smile.  A sigh.  A burning trail of lingering forgiveness.  Of accepted exoneration.

The smile remained even as tears cascaded down his cheeks, and he pulled her close again, clutching her against his chest.  There they stood indeterminately, unaware of their surroundings, that they were still in Xander's basement.  That three pairs of eyes were studying them in growing bewilderment.  And amazingly, no one said a word.

Xander looked to Willow and mouthed helplessly, "You up for _The Matrix?"_


	20. The Calm

**Chapter Nineteen**

A sense of peace settled over warring minds, and before the ending credits rolled, most everyone had fallen asleep.  Though she had only been awake for a few hours, the Slayer was the first to topple into deep slumber, setting the bar for the others to follow.  Curled into William's embrace, she clutched at him contentedly, blissfully unaware that her companion was still wide-awake, tracing her features with poignant fondness.  The taste of her confession tainted the air in pleasant afterglow, but the ambiance fell sour for the knowledge of impending goodbyes.  He sighed wantonly, wondering how any of it had ever come this far.  

He knew it still changed nothing.  Despite what was shared, despite how he felt, there was no way he could remain here.  No way he would rob her of life like that.  The Slayer was marked with an expiration date, and true, Buffy was different.  Special.  Assuming all went well with the looming big evil, she would be the oldest slayer in history.

But it _changed nothing._

It didn't matter that she had already died twice fighting darkness.  The Slayer wasn't supposed to have the support system she did; it kept her alive.  And William knew that if he stayed, if he allowed himself to grow that selfish, the day would inevitably arrive when he would be forced to say goodbye.  He had something she could never possess, something he would never grant her, despite how the thought of a Buffyless world plagued his already-tortured soul.    

He sighed and cast his eyes about the room.  Dawn was sprawled across the floor, snoozing soundly with a copy of _Streetcar _lying ineffectually on her chest.  After things had calmed, Willow informed the girl that the ending of the movie differed from the play.  They had fallen asleep reviewing study questions.

Xander was the only other one awake, and he was simply staring at the screen—blank as it was.  There was no want of sleep.  So they sat in silence, not looking at each other, and he was lost in knowledge that plagued the deepest layers of his subconscious.  Serenity, temperate as it was, blanketed and cocooned.  A grim final peace before hell broke loose.  

Neither knew how much time had passed before William stirred.  Wordlessly, he lifted Buffy out of his embrace, stopping to caress her cheek. A look of reverent peace overcame him, though briefly.  The smile shadowing his lips never surfaced.  Instead, he emitted a sigh and ran a hand through blond strands.  It occurred to him off-handedly that it wasn't necessary to continue bleaching his hair, but decided there was no harm in it.  Regularity filled the voids of tedium.  He stood at last and strode passed Xander, taking a seat at a card table; caressing his brow in the loom of an oncoming headache.  

Behind him, he heard Harris rouse, heard the grunt of the couch springs as he lifted himself to his feet.  Heard him walk to the refrigerator and peer inside.  Heard him pop something in the microwave but didn't look up until a familiar scent wafted through the air and was finally presented before him in a glass.  William's eyes peered open at the offering, and he glanced at Xander skeptically.

"Angel was here earlier," he explained airily.  "Dropped some stuff off.  Thought you might be hungry."

Timely, the vampire's stomach produced a long growl, and he could do nothing but shrug his compliance as he took a modest drink.  "You 'ave no idea.  'Preciate it, Harris.  Thanks."

The other man nodded and cleared his throat, indicating the sleeping girls with a jest of his head.  "I think she'd like it better if I made nice."  There was a prolonged pause of discomfort before he found the courage to voice an inevitable curiosity.  "You're not going to hurt her, are you?"  If the inquiry had been made in any other context, William would have growled his discontent and sneered something unpleasant.  However, it was genuine and coated with concern.  The least he could do was offer his honesty in return.

"I'm not stayin' if tha's what you're askin'.  No matter."  He took a protracted, exaggerated breath.  "I'm not that selfish."

Harris couldn't suppress a snicker.  "Sorry," he said shortly.  "That just sounds funny coming from you."

William rolled his eyes and took another drink.  "Oh, 'ere it comes.  Listen, mate.  I—" 

"I'm not going to tell you how much I hate you," he amended quickly.  "I don't think I understood until…what happened earlier.  For the life of me, I'll never know why you did what you did.  I'll just…never get it.  And I'll never approve of anything that happens between you and Buffy.  I've been there before, and I've seen what happens.  But she…well, you heard her.  For whatever reason, she's able to love you."  Xander sighed and looked to his clasped hands.  "I just don't want to see her get hurt."

The root to all his fears was summarized with such simplicity.  William exhaled and closed his eyes tightly.  "An' hurtin her's the last bloody thing I aim to do," he replied.  "I've told 'er that.  I've also told 'er that I'm going back once this is all over.  Nothin' that 'appens 'ere's gonna change that.  Doesn't matter how much I…I couldn't do that to 'er.  There's no place in the world for a slayer who loves somethin' as black as me."  He shook his head in continuous awe.  "She deserves so much more than this.  An' if I were to stay, there would come the day when I'd hafta say goodbye, an' the longer I'm 'ere, the harder it'd be."  A dry chuckle rasped his throat.  "I'll tell yah, Harris…immortality's a bitch."

"Do you love her?"

William arched his brows.  "More than anythin'.  If I didn't, it wouldn't be this sodding difficult to say goodbye."  Another sigh rolled off his lips.  "Won't tell her, though.  It'd just make things harder.  'Sides, 's no secret how I feel about her.  Think I'd risk my hide for anyone?"

"I dunno," Xander confessed.  "If you'd asked me that yesterday…things are different.  What I saw earlier…you're not even like Angel.  You're—"

The vampire scoffed and finished his drink.  "Figures.  Y'know, I can't lose this, right?  Got it for her.  'S not a curse.  'S mine forever.  Long after she's gone and you Scoobies are nothin' more than a footnote in some archival book for the ninnies in England.  I'll still be 'ere, mournin' her, lovin' her.  Till the day finally comes when the world ends an' no one stops it, or I get a pretty piece of wood in my chest."

The other man sighed and nodded.  "I can't imagine that," he conceded.  "I never thought you could do something so selfless."

There was a rich chuckle.  "Cor, mate.  Nothin' selfless about it.  I told myself the entire time that I was aimin' to get this blasted chip out.  Never really believed it, but 's more plausible than what I did.  An' even so…even if I did understand what I was doin'…all I wanted it fo' was to make her love me.  Give 'er a reason to love me.  To be the kind of man that she could love."  William shook his head at himself.  "I'm such a prat.  An' then she's all forgivin'.  I don't get it, Harris.  I just don' get it."

A brief silence settled between them.

"What happens if the Master finds a way around it?" Xander asked softly.  "Angel and I were talking about this earlier.  Truthfully, we're more concerned about him going off the deep end.  Angel's annoying when he's soulful, but a goddamned bastard when he's not.  You're just annoying.  But if you're right about this guy anticipating our every move, why is so hard to believe that he might work some magic to retract the curse?  Or take your soul away?"

"Already covered this with Ripper.  Red works the curse again—on whoever, an' everythin's rosy."  

At that, Harris leapt forward, eyes going wide with alarm.  "No!" he objected fiercely.  "Willow doesn't work magic.  Not anymore.  She—"

"Oh, that's what you think."  A voice from behind them.  Both men turned in time to see the Witch sit up and yawn, though it was obvious she had been awake for a while now.  William saw something significant flicker behind her gaze, and immediately understood.  She smiled softly, sheepishly, though there was confidence behind it.  "Might as well come clean if I'm expected to work a curse on command."

There was no feeling behind Xander's eyes.  Nothing but raw comprehension, tainted by sparks of garish duplicity. "You've been working with magic," he said softly.

"Ever since I got back.  Nothing big or anything, but yeah."  Willow pursed her lips, looked to William and smiled in reassurance.  He could tell she was battling a frontage of instinctual guilt.  "Actually, I didn't do much of anything for a while.  Just a few good luck potions or whatnot.  Like when you got your job.  I'd done a spell that day so the interview would go well."

"Oh, that's great," he retorted.  "What a way to tell me, Wills.  'The world might end in a few days, but hey, here I am to make it go quicker.'"

Something dark coursed through the vampire on reflex.  A protective older-brother sensation that raged at the thought of anyone attacking his Red—verbally or otherwise.  William growled tightly and, before he could stop himself, a hand had curled around Xander's throat, then immediately retracted when the chip activated.  "Bloody hell," he grumbled, caressing his forehead.  The look he delivered when his eyes leveled with the boy's could have frozen hell.  "Don't be a prat, you sodding ninny.  Red's harmless.  I know what she did before, and I don't give a bleedin' fuck.  I won't let 'er fall while I'm 'ere."  

A long beat of cold reproach settled between them before Xander's eyes softened.  Something undoubtedly nasty was coiled on his waiting tongue, but he swallowed the comment and aimed for a barb of neutrality.  "I won't, either," he replied softly; hand around his neck, even though there was no pain.  "Sorry, Willow.  You just…took me by surprise."

"Hey.  Understandable."  She sighed meaningfully.  "But seriously, Xan, I've been doing this for a while now.  And this is the exact reason I decided to lay off.  You guys wouldn't…or maybe you would've, understood.  At the time, it didn't seem like it.  Everyone was on pins and needles.  And the more time that passed, the less important my mentioning it became.  I just didn't want you guys going wiggy with the worrying.  That's all.  It's all a part of me.  The magic and stuff."  Pursing her lips, Willow tapped the vampire and earned his eyes in return.  "You want me to be ready to work the curse, then.  I'll need to go back and decode the original text…not sure if the same curse applies to everyone or if I'd need to change it so it works on you."

William nodded and leaned back.  "Yeh.  Figured there 'ad to be some catch to it.  Listen, Red, I dunno if this aims to amount to anythin'.  Chances are you won't have to touch any of that ritual mojo.  I just wanna be prepared."

"It's a good idea," Xander agreed, nodding fervently.  "If this guy's as bad as you've indicated, there's no reason to think he might not try something like that."

With a sigh, Willow stood, stretching with a sleepy nod.  "I'll get working on it," she said before consequentially collapsing in a tired heap on rickety springs.  "First thing in the morning."

"What are you going to tell Buffy?"  Harris was staring at the vampire intently, dark eyes heavy but not angry.  "With everything you said a few minutes ago…you saw her earlier.  It's going to tear her up when you leave."

"I know."  Something heavy crashed in William's head, and the room started to rotate.  "An' it bloody kills me.  But she knows.  I've told 'er time and time again…I'm goin' back to London.  'S my home."

The Witch frowned, forcing herself to her feet.  "This is your home," she insisted softly.  "It'll always be your home.  And if you told Giles that when—"

"No, Red.  Nothin'll change my mind."  William exhaled deeply and pushed himself away from the table.  "I love her too bloody much to ruin her by stayin' here.  I love her so much it hurts.  Like my lungs are fightin' to breathe and my heart's achin' to pound, but can't.  An' I want…you have no idea how much I want to stay, or to take 'er with me.  But I gotta be smart."  In defeat, he moved behind Willow and sunk to the space she had occupied, opposite the Slayer.  For a few brief seconds, he watched her with pain-streaked eyes, admiring the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.  "An' it's not just me," he whispered.  "You mates deserve your fair chance at a normal life, too.  Bleedin' unlikely, but a bloke's gotta do what a bloke's gotta do.  It just gets one more vamp out of your way.  The best way I can love her is to say goodbye.  The sooner she and the lot of you accepts that, the better off everyone'll be."

Resignedly, Willow sighed and nodded, turning to face him with grave intensity.  "I know," she whispered.  "But…I'm going to miss you.  And it'll tear her up.  You know everyone leaves her.  Angel did, Riley did…and you're going to, _again.  _I don't know how many times a person can heal."

"Sure you do," he replied softly, taking her hand and squeezing reassuringly.  "It takes stones, but everyone heals with time.  An' she knows…" With a poignant smile, William's eyes flickered over Buffy's slumbering form again, a riveting sigh coursing through his body.  "She knows as I do…the only way to really love someone is to let 'em go."

*~*~*

It was close to three in the morning when William left Xander's basement, intent on locating Giles and Angel, who he knew were still researching at the library.  When challenged on his knowledge of the Watcher's study patterns, the vampire instantly provided countless accounts of life in London.  There was the forty-eight hour investigation that ensued when they were first alerted to the vampires that excreted black blood.  There was the night he found a relic of some demon he had heard of years back and insisted thorough research was essential.  It accumulated to wasted hours.  Apparently, a toddler had dropped the previously day in the library.  A family emblem that had somehow worked its way into the child's overalls.   The stories went on and on—most amusing, others unbelievable, but all true in their respects.  

 "The old git 'as his ways," William had drawled.  "An' he's well-known in these parts as the Slayer's former watcher, by the demon community, at least.  I'm sure he had no trouble talkin' the ole librarian into lettin' him stay fo' a few more hours.  An' I know Ripper well.  With a willin' accomplice, he can lose himself in those dusty old books.  He's prolly jus' getting his second wind 'bout now."

Just as he suspected, the luminosity stemming from the main building provided a helpful pathway, reaching places the streetlights couldn't touch.  The vampire grinned tightly, allowing himself to feel a rush of the slightest sympathy for Angel.  _Peaches might've been his study-buddy once, _he reflected, _but there's no way in hell he knew jus' how far the old man can push.  _He doubted that during their previous transactions the Watcher had eaten an entire evening away with his explorations.  If so, it was likely a venue he traveled alone.

The previous night had seen the most hours William had slept in over a decade.  It was so easy to lose himself like that, lying beside her. Watching her.  Loving her.  Needless to say, he was plenty rested for the next few days.  Nearly twenty hours of sleep was liable to juice him through the rest of the week.  

And he was certainly not doing anyone any good just lounging about; discussing the outcome of their perilous situation while maintaining the mindset that everything would pass without conflict.  No one liked to voice the very really possibility that this might be the one thing they couldn't defeat, but understandably after so many years, encountering such an entity seemed rather unlikely.  The Scoobies had only had a taste of death—some more than others.  None of them—save Buffy—had died and been brought back.   

His Red had had to say goodbye to her lover and suffered drastic consequences in return, but she had not died.

William helped himself into the library and found Giles hunched over a stack of books, nowhere near sleep, talking excitedly with Angel.  Neither noticed his presence until he cleared his throat loudly.  

"Oh.  Hello, Will," the Watcher greeted distractedly, handing Angel the book he had just flipped through.  "I thought you were watching videos at Xander's?"   

The vampire's lips curled in amusement.  How typical.  "Yeah.  Right.  Movies.  We got through watchin' _The_ _Matrix _about five hours ago.  Shoulda been there, Ripper.  Jus' the kinda encouragement we need.  'There is no spoon' an' all that."  Pointedly, he arched a finger at Angel, and recited with droll humor, "There is no Peaches.  Peaches is a matter of mind and will that you can control on every whim."

His grandsire was less than amused, notably exhausted but willing to continue.  "You're hilarious.  Did you say the movie ended five hours ago?  Is it really that late?"

"Yeah.  You'll be wantin' to head off to bed, soon.  Else you'd rather spend the day in this place.  I can see that, really.  No skylights."  William smiled fondly and approached the book-covered table, offhandedly investigating the titles.  "Had a wicked time findin' a system to hop around my place of employment without getting dusted.  This place seems to be a bit more vamp-friendly.  So…what're we lookin' at?"

"We believe we might have pinpointed the identity of the Master," Giles announced, still hunched over.  "This book you were researching the other night mentions a vampire called Geryon.  'One born of the oldest order to slay the slayer of his kind.'  He was supposed to rise sometime last year, according to these calculations, but the previous Master's death might have come a year too late."      

"Mmm, name sounds a bit familiar," the bleached vampire conceded, approaching Angel to peer at the pages over his shoulder.  "Vaguely.  Did it mention anythin' that'd be useful?  I figure the day's gettin' closer.  Aim to be ready."

The Watcher looked up fully for the first time.  "You didn't encounter any trouble on the way over here, did you?"

"Nada.  All's quiet on the front."

"Where's Buffy?"  Angel this time.  Inquisitive and concerned—implicitly assured that his childe knew her whereabouts at any given time.  It was a bizarre feeling; to be trusted without any form of tangible faith.   

William sighed.  "Sleepin', like any normal person at this hour.  Well, any normal _human.  _Sleepin' harder than I thought she could with as much as we slept last night.  Bonkered herself out, she did."  At his words, Giles and the other vampire looked to him sharply—halfway between accusing and amused.  He blinked, understood, and rolled his eyes.  "From the _fight, _you prats."

The Watcher cleared his throat and smiled uncomfortably.  "Umm, yes.  Of course.  Will, I could use your opinion on this passage."  Eager to escape the incredulous gaze, he tore the book away from Angel and thrust it into William's grasp.  "There.  There's a long paragraph about this Geryon fellow, and it's sealed with this."

The vampire's gaze dropped to the indicated text.  In old script following a passage of fluent Samarian were the words:

_Slayer;_ _Even night ends two at circle_

— _Corou_

That made absolutely no bloody sense.

"Well," he mused.  "Strange."

"Any ideas?"

William arched a flawless brow.  "From that?  Shyeah.  I'm not _that _good, old man.  Could mean any number of things."  He squinted and peered closer, face softening as the inner wheels began to turn.  "But…'f you look closely, the language before this mumbo jumbo s'all fluent an' what all.  This doesn't make any sort of grammatical sense."

Angel perked humorously.  "S'all wonky, innit?" he drawled in a thickly fake, not to mention horrible English brogue.  "'S what I thought, but Ripper 'ere didn't want to believe me."

The unamused, identical stares spawned by the two Englishmen wiped the snicker off his face, and things grew uncomfortable again.  However short-lived: the bleached vampire was grinning in a second, slapping his sire on the back with lively enthusiasm.

"Didn't know you had it in you, Peaches.  Where would I be if I couldn't take things with a spot of good humor?"  William smirked and reached for his cigarettes; ignoring the pointed look Giles directed his way in silent reminder of their location.  "'S not my place, Ripper," he observed as he lit up.  "Don't give a bloody lot if it roasts.  'Sides, I've been doin' this for years.  I'm careful."  He blew a ring of smoke onto aged pages.  "My guess 'ere is code."

"Code?" they echoed together.

"Yeh.  They're places in 'ere where 's in English, an' it sounds all honky dory.  This looks to be the only grammatical inconsistency.  'S definitely a message to the Slayer.  I'm right sure 'bout that."  William frowned thoughtfully.  "Corou…'aven't heard that name before.  'Ave either of you?"

"Can't say that I have," Giles replied, lips pressed together in a tight frown.  That alone nearly sealed it.  If the Watcher had not heard of a historical figure sprouted from the demon world, the indications typically implied deception.  "You think it might be a part of the code?"

"Makes sense enough, eh?  Maybe an anagram or somethin'.  We can make about a thousand things with those letters, though, and only 'alf of 'em would be intelligible."  William sighed, eyes falling again to the highlighted name of the revealed Master, lips playing it out, testing its sound against still air.  He was aware that his colleagues were watching him—Angel with surprise and Giles with interest.  "Geryon," he hissed a minute later.  "Bloody hell, that name really does sound familiar."

A series of nods followed the observation.  "Yes," the Watcher agreed.  "We thought so, as well.  It's right there on the tip of my tongue, but…" He trailed off in thought, eyes flickering in the struggle with memory and fatigue.  After a minute, he sighed and shook his head, removing his glasses to caress his eyes tiredly.  "Perhaps it is getting a bit too late," he murmured.

"Pish posh, Ripper," William snickered.  "Some literary reference.  You don' spend as much time in a sodding library as I 'ave in the past few years without reading every bloody book the place has to offer.  You should know that, old git.  Prolly the only prat that's spent more time surrounded by books than I 'ave.  I know I've…"  

_"The Inferno,"_ Angel said suddenly, eyes going wide.  "Geryon was the name of the serpentine monster that took Dante and Virgil from the seventh circle of hell to the eighth."  

There was a long pause of comprehension, light dawning behind weary gazes.  "By George, I think he's got it," the platinum vampire said gleefully.  "Oh, that ponce.  Tha's it.  That has to be it."

"Of course," Giles agreed breathlessly.  "So he decides to call himself by the name of a serpentine monster.  What…"

"Exaggeratin' his powers?" William suggested.  

Angel arched a skeptic brow.  "Is that a chance we want to take?"   

"No."  The Watcher shook his head solemnly.  "We can't.  Will, look carefully.  Our time is running out, and fast.  We couldn't find anything…do you think it possible that you decode the message?"

There was no doubt in his voice.  The unshakable confidence Giles expressed had the ability to swell you with pride and make you quiver with incompetence in chorus.  However, the burden of responsibility was not one that William shied from these days.  With a slight nod, he sighed.  "I can try.  'S a matter of time, Ripper, an' how quickly we're runnin' out of it.  When's this anniversary set to take place?"

"Two days," Angel and Giles answered in unison, earning a sharp gaze of understanding from the bleached vampire.  No one could question just how sharply that date stood out.  Buffy's first death—however brief—must have been horrific.  A pain still struck deep in his chest whenever he thought of her, lying inert on the ground before him, a martyr—the gift of life for her sister.

And then new resolution.  William shared a moment of private reflection before he hardened again, closing the book and placing it aside.  "Won't bloody happen," he promised them.  "Didn't come across the world to watch her be killed again.  I'll get started on this."  Sharply, he pivoted to Angel.  "An' you should take her out on patrol.  She won't listen to me…this bloke's got a yen to hurt 'er.  'S not a good idea that she be out there right now, but since she…go with her.  I can't.  I gotta work on this."

"I will," he whispered.  "But not without trying to talk her out of it first."

"Right," the vampire snickered in turn.  "Good luck."

A fond smile played across Giles's lips, and he shook his head in disagreement.  "Getting Buffy to listen to reason will take more than luck," he observed.  "Though I believe most everyone has lost faith in miracles, it being the twenty-first century."


	21. I Made My Own Home

**Chapter Twenty**

It was positively sinful to have a surprise pop quiz during the last week of her final year in high school.  However, as this was the instructors' favored brand of torture, Dawn didn't get much of a say.  Along with the other two hundred fifty seven of the graduating seniors, she grudgingly endured the lasting strain of academics the so-called authority figures attempted to exercise.  She remembered Xander telling her once that his final week had been composed of madlibs and hangman.  This was pure and simple torture, concocted to keep the students in line.  If only that giant snake hadn't destroyed the school that used to reside on these grounds…

In spite of herself, Dawn had to crack a grin.  Honestly, how many teenagers could have _that _purely validated thought cross their minds without a flinch, or a sudden need of extensive therapy?  

Between passing notes in class and turning in her last revision of the _Streetcar _essay Willow had helped her with, the younger Summers was completely occupied with whispered talk concerning the uprising evil.  Even the notably oblivious students that accompanied her through particularly boring lectures seemed to understand that something large was on the rise.  The number of people occupying the Bronze after dark had dwindled—granted, not by much—but enough to be noticed.  The previous day, after awaking ten minutes late for class, she found Buffy watching the television in Xander's basement, keened to the news that another baby had been born with the eyes facing inward.  

Things were getting hairy.

The bottom of Dawn's stomach gave way, the lead of her pencil snapping as she hastily attempted to answer question fourteen.  It was impossible to concentrate in the midst of such proceedings.  To make things worse, she hadn't seen Spike since that episode in Xander's basement.  When she arrived that evening from school, she found Buffy and Willow chatting quietly, reflecting some conversation the Witch and Harris had held with the vampire prior to his departure.  Giles and Angel showed up sometime later, relating that Spike (or William, as the Watcher called him) was busy with research and couldn't be bothered.

It was the definitive sign of _bad _to _worse.  _

Trying to gauge Buffy's reaction to the entire situation was difficult, especially with the weight of _Spike being back and all non-evil like _resting atop every other flash of new tidings.  That night at Xander's seemed to prove several things.  For one thing, her sister had loved the demon very much, despite what she said or whom she tried to fool.  Secondly, Spike, equipped with a soul, felt it impossible to feasibly give her what his demon had tried over and over to obtain for the burden of his crimes.  And lastly, (not at all pertaining to her sister), Dawn needed to talk to the vampire desperately and apologize for the harsh welcome home she had delivered the night they discovered his return.  Soul or no soul, she had loved Spike dearly, despite what he did to her sister, and to see what he put himself through all for the sake of her…it made her well up with warm fuzzies.  

Tiredly, the younger Summers girl yawned, eying her friend, Diana, with a pointed look.  "I'm going to be so glad when this is all behind us," she whispered fervently, avoiding the accusing though indifferent look cast by the teacher.  It was too late in the year to start avidly caring about the classroom chatterboxes. 

Her friend nodded and rolled her eyes.  "No guff.  Hey, I'm gonna head downstairs for a quick smoke.  Wanna come?"

The answer formed wordlessly in the air before the need to recite her standing materialized.  A year before, Diana had persuaded Dawn to join her on one of these daily trips to the basement and test a huff of nicotine.  Smoke did not rest well with her, and the first puff did her lungs in.  Whatever fascination she held with the practice was hence dissolved, and though she didn't want to admit it, a higher level of Dawn's understanding connected the experiment with Spike's annoying addiction.  On occasion, Diana would ask her friend to accompany her out of the sport of good humor and a friendly jest when she declined.  

"And miss this highly entertaining class period?"  Dawn smirked and indicated the drooping heads and eyes that were fixed on the clock that insisted on passing time as slowly as possible.  "Get real."

Diana snickered and rolled her eyes.  The teacher excused her to the rest room, though the telling threat behind her voice informed her that she knew perfectly well where the girl was actually headed.  "Whatever, Summers.  Be sure to _not_ tell me if we have another quiz.  As the rest of the senior class, I don't really give a fuck anymore."

Dawn smiled and resumed doodling on her spiral notebook.  The majority of the class had finished the quiz and was collaboratively partaking in the attempt to stall turn-in time.  These endless days could not be filled with more tedium, but that didn't mean the Gestapo that ran her school wouldn't try.

The rest of class passed with growing monotony.  By the time the bell rang, more than half of the students who bothered to show up anymore were snoozing on their books, oblivious to the drool that rolled haphazardly onto hard-wood desks.  Threats of a follow-up test rang ineffectually to the herd of hormones fighting to get through the doorway.  Things as universally dull as schoolwork simply didn't matter anymore, and try as they might, the faculty was visibly tired of routine as well.  The evidence was irrefutable:  Sunnydale was beyond prepared to grasp summer with open arms.

Dawn was halfway to her next class before she realized her friend had not returned from the rendezvous downstairs.  This was not wholly unusual; Diana's smoke breaks were extending rapidly by five-minute intervals the faster graduation day approached.  Anything to avoid a room full of blank stares and redundant lessons that no one would remember outside of high school.  Fellow students were often referred to as puppets.  Guinea pigs.  Whatever the public school system could devise to keep Sunnydale's youth in line.  That, and the teachers were likely a part of some major government conspiracy that concerned flying saucers and shiny objects.

Lunch hour came and went with no sign from Diana, and at last Dawn began to worry.  Chances were an authority figure had finally captured the offender after four years of carefree smoking, but she was in no way accustomed to living on absolutes.  Strictly speaking, students were not admitted on the lower levels without a pass, and while this hardly put a hamper to daily exploring by the big-name troublemakers, it was stringently monitored thanks to the aid of several sporadically placed security cameras.  By whatever grace of God, Diana had managed to evade capture during the course of her high school career.

But now…

_Third period's a bore, anyway, _Dawn rationalized as she neared the **NO STUDENT ADMISSION**sign placed rigorously at the end of the long corridor.  The warning bell had sounded, but no one was hurrying to beat the tardy policy.  _Besides, I so aced that test.  Won't matter if I…_

It was a matter of resolve.  _What would Buffy do?_

Summers grinned cheekily and pushed the door open.  Her body went rigid immediately as though she expected an ambush of angry personnel, but the only thing that greeted her was the darkness of the stairwell.  Cigarette smoke wafted in the still air, and she rolled her eyes with expectancy, a dry, sardonic murmur escaping her throat.  "Quick smoke, huh?  Well, let's be fair, Dawn.  She never specified _what _she was smoking."  

Uh oh.  Perhaps she had been training too much with Buffy.  The butterflies in her stomach were beginning to stir in that _you **know **something's down there _kind of way.  Weren't only slayers supposed to get the tinglies?  Emitting a breath, ashamed at how it shuddered, she shook her head and stepped down boldly.  Alarms failed to sound and she was fairly certain the staff had yet to sick the guard dogs after her.  

_This from the girl whose occupation used to be amateur shoplifter…_

Dawn stopped on the fifth step down and finally allowed the door behind her to slam closed.  "This is stupid," she told the darkness, unsure of whom she was trying to convince.  Either way, the three-word assurance did her in, and without further hindrance, she skated down the stairway, searching for a light when she came to the end.  

Switch.  Burned out bulb.

"Fantastic," she murmured.  "I _knew_ I should have bought those night vision goggles."

All right.  Bad humor not a good sign of being completely in charge of one's emotions.  Dawn bit her lip and proceeded.  The past three years had taught her to be entirely self-reliant—prepared to face a world of danger, and though she handled herself better than any of the other Scoobies when presented with peril (strictly in the ass-kicking sense), a child lurked within her confident cavity.  An evil child that whispered unvoiced feelings of lingering inadequacy.  Vampires were easy to deal with, and patrolling in an open-graveyard in the dead of night seemed much more logical than attempting to maneuver through a dark high school basement.  

School in itself was frightening enough.

She waited a few seconds for her eyes to adjust.  No such luck.  Dawn waved her hand in front of her face with futility.  Her skin could be florescent purple and she wouldn't know the difference.  

_Okay, _she thought, calming, _let's sort things out in a good and bad pile.  Good:  I'm not in European Government.  Good: Had a nice, healthy, school/prison food lunch.  Bad: Should not have thought of food.  School food icky; term 'food' used lightly.  Bad:  Am currently trekking through unknown territory at bottom of said school.  Bad: If sister finds out, sister kills. Bad:  Have lost use of personal pronouns.  Bad: Have very bad feeling about this._

"I am the Key," Dawn proclaimed under her breath.  "And it's not the Key's job to have tinglies."

And yet tinglies were most certainly being had.

Pursing her lips, she continued down a darkened passage, tiptoeing as quietly as possible while stretching her hearing down the far-reaches of the underground to detect any indication of movement.  She absently wondered how the security cameras spotted misdemeanors down here unless they were equipped with super laser vision or something equally cheesy.  

_I'm being stupid.  Di probably ditched school and went home like any sensible senior would.  I mean, who would want to be here on a lovely…dreary…rainy… Okay, scratch that.  Who would want to be here at all?_

"Stop talking…or thinking," Dawn sputtered awkwardly.  "It's not working."

The next instant banished any measure of rational thought from convenient proximity.  One second she was standing grounded, watching, waiting, listening for a sign that her friend was near, and as her senses took command of her, the eerie serenity captured in the lower level evaporated altogether.  A sharp pain clamored against her jaw as she was shoved to the wall, the familiar growl of a hungry vampire caressing her ear.  Dawn's interior monologue vanquished along with any lingering qualm.  It was basic instinct now.  Quickly, she head-butted the vamp and broke free, whirling in a roundhouse kick that resulted with her pressed again against the wall; tight, snapping jaws nearing her neck too close for comfort.

_All right._  _Enough with the 'What would Buffy do' thing.  We've done what Buffy would do, and now we're feeling pretty much screwed.  Let's try the…what would Spike do.  SPIKE.  Not William—Spike.  What would HE…_

The answer to that was all too obvious.  Something outlandish and bold and just stupid enough to work.  

"You know," she said, struggling futilely against the vampire's strength.  "You really should consider a long term dental plan.  One that actually concerns brushing.  Cause from here…shew.  You smell like cabbage, buddy."

Forget bold and outlandish. That was just stupid.  Within the next second, Dawn found herself resigned harshly to the floor, and at last the darkness alleviated with some sense of light.  There were four, perhaps five vampires surrounding her.  Closing in.

_Still wanna try what Spike would do?_

No, no.  In such instances, it was her extreme good fortune that her older sister was a superhero.  Drawing in a deep breath, Summers bounded to her feet.  The situation would be a breeze if Buffy were here, and despite whatever preparation she had put herself through, it was beyond obvious that the Key did not equal Slayer.

_If I get out of here alive, _she thought with tragic irony, shuddering to imagine the scowl of raging disapproval on her sister's face.  _I am **so **dead._

These were not encouraging thoughts.

Dawn kicked blindly in a random direction, victoriously coming into contact with something—cold but lively.  Again she twirled, swinging instinctively to the creature behind her.  Another successful blow.  Motivation charged her veins.  Gaining momentum, she prepared to pivot again, but was stopped in mid-action by powerful pressure weighing on her shoulder.  Not thinking twice, she grabbed the offending hand and attempted to toss the vampire over her body as she had seen her sister do time and time again.  However, her confidence drained as her peaked high remembered exactly who she was and what powers she did not possess.  The ground beneath her groaned when she hit it—or was that her own helpless wheeze fighting to escape winded lungs?  It was over so quickly; she didn't realize she had lost until she was surrounded by an oval of demon eyes.

The most hideous face she had ever seen hovered over her weary face, and Dawn felt her insides collapse in dread.  Over the course of her brief, eventful life, she had played witness to more than one memorable occurrence.  More than one apocalypse.  She remembered Buffy's accounts of the first, those many years ago.  When she had been too young to—when she hadn't even been there.

The face she saw now surpassed all accounts of reasonability.  Everything and anything her young, gullible mind could conjure—swept away in the blink of an eye.  Glowing maroon eyes—_God, **are** there vampires with maroon eyes?—_stared back at her, tight lips taut in a satisfied, malicious sneer.  The sort of mocking repose that dared any sort of revolution.  Without speaking, without breathing a word, the smile assured her all hope of escape was naïve, and beyond impossible.

This sort of despicable creature.  Dawn felt a rush of disgust before losing all sense of consciousness.  The last thing she saw was the drained, lifeless body of Diana lying several feet away, cigarette still smoking between unmoving fingers.

*~*~*

However much time had passed since the night spent at Xander's, William wasn't sure.  A few days, even a week, perhaps.  Time in itself mended into one continuously growing routine.  Every waking minute thereafter had been occupied in the library, investigating book after book and playing himself into a labyrinth of crossword puzzles with numerous failed attempts to decode the cryptic message Giles had discovered.  At first, even he had been skeptical of his own conviction.  The measures one took lowering to the helpless grasping of straws.

He was convinced now.  It was definitely code.  A well concealed code, at that.  He had positively nothing to compare it to.  Nothing to test it against.  The words and letters constructed a thousand different sentences in a thousand different tongues: none of which rang as intelligible or likely.  He had the sinking suspicion that the answer was remarkably straightforward, and that he was simply missing something.

There was one perk to continuous research: his mind hadn't the time to travel to Buffy.  To consider what had passed between them.  That road was untended, and with any luck, he would figure the clue out and reveal it to show terrific potency as the missing link to defeating the rising evil.  Then he and Ripper could go home.

At long last.

Of course, nothing was ever that simple.

Leaving the Slayer would be easier said than done, especially with every tearful confession clamoring his insides.  Whatever he had expected from this journey, it wasn't forgiveness, and least of all love.  Every time he got near her, touched her, he felt and saw warmth he could not fathom possessing.  And it hurt.  With each look, smile, kiss, she drove a stake through his chest.  Her best was more than he could bear.  It was harder yet, now that he had accepted its validity.  Pretending it all to be an elaborate dream had at least given him some room to work.

But now was not the time to worry with such things.  More urgent matters pressed with lasting persistency.  The code would not unravel itself.  

It was getting darker earlier.  The terrain was nestled in blackness before the hour could creep past five.  William felt the hairs on the back of his neck spring to life in reaction, a shudder claiming his body.  Time was growing regrettably short; they had spent so much effort mangling themselves around the personal affects of his visit rather than visiting the point of the trip in itself.  The approaching days would prove difficult, perhaps deadly, and no one would know how to respond.  

Not for the first time, he felt a surge of homesickness seize his core.  Everything had been so simple then.  Working for the lot of poofters that owned the library, researching every demon brought to their attention, trading jibes with Ripper over morning coffee, poking fun at obscure literary references that would likely exceed anyone else's understanding.  Knowing that he could never have her.  Understanding that was what he deserved.

William sighed and shook his head.  The past couple days had not been generous enough to provide him time to rest.  Though he had slept his share at the crypt the night they were raided by vamps in the graveyard, he could only go so far fully charged before fatigue inevitably seized command.   

It was luck that Willow happened in at that moment.  The library was fairly unoccupied, all except the nosy librarians that had grudgingly accepted that he had consent from the administration to use as much time as he cared to, even if his stay progressed far into the night.  The past couple days had seen him nowhere else, and each morning the opening librarian would greet him cheerfully and give him a cup of coffee.  He liked her all right.  It was the closing shift that had their knickers in a twist, studying him contemptuously.  He had to hand it to them; he didn't much have the look of a bona fide scholar.  The temptation was great to light up a cigarette a couple of times, just to get them brassed, but he knew that would lead to banishment from the books and straight to Giles's crap list: a place he had not seen in years.

The Witch presented him with a brown bag full of goodies with a slight smile.  "Hey, Mr. Research," she greeted, plopping her purse into a chair, briefly glancing over an open book cast across the table.  "Any luck?"

William motioned to the notebook filled with the thousands of possibilities he had produced in the past forty-eight hours with arched brows.  "If you call that luck," he sneered bitterly.  "This bloke's aimin' to make it eat away days at a time.  After all, what is life to these chaps more than a tale told by an idiot, full of sound an' fury, signifyin' nothing?  Problem is everythin' I come up with 's just as wonky as the original.  None of that makes any bleedin' sense."     

A frown wiped the smile from her face as she browsed the list of useless predictions.  "No, it doesn't," she agreed.  "I could surf the net for yah.  Maybe there's something on this Ger…Geryon?  Yeah.  Geryon guy.  You know…list of powers, references, things he might have put in creepy old books to wig people like us out?"

A small, faint grin tickled William's lips, and he shrugged appreciatively.  "Luv, 'f you think it'll do any good, I'm open to all sorts of help right now.  But I gotta tell yeh…I've looked through every bloody title in this damn place, an' I've searched my own collection more times than I can count.  Not to mention all those books Ripper has piled away."  He read her skeptical expression, and the smile on his face turned sheepish.  "A bloke's gotta keep occupied.  'Sides, I do work in a library.  In order fer anythin' to get online, they'd firstly 'ave to 'ave a book to look it up in, right?"

Willow frowned and conceded, her eyes rolling.  "Yeah, I guess.  Are you sure you've looked through everything—"

"Two and three times, pet.  P'raps more.  'S not 'ere.  There's only a couple books I've found that even call Geryon by name.  'E's mentioned in a few, right, but nothin' that would lead me to know what the bloody hell this means."  In grim frustration, he gestured to the yet-to-be-cracked code.   "This not knowin'…really's the bloody thorn in my side."  Then, without suggestion, the hardened expression besetting his features fell, a placid look of indifference overcoming him.  The tenor of their discussion changed at that minute, dropping in degrees.  "How is she?"

"All right.  She was confused when she woke up and you were all…not there."

"She understood, though, right?  Some things're just more important."  He sighed heavily.  "The sooner this is over, the better."

"Hey—no argument here."  Her face, though, told a different story.  

William's mouth drew into a taut line, eyes unwittingly rolling upward and meeting hers.  A sort of grim understanding connected their thoughts into mutinous abode—unspoken and not needing any elaboration.  There was no want of denial, and no use in vocalizing those opinions that were already gleaming in manifest light.  When the air confined and threatened to become uncomfortable, he shifted and cleared his throat, drawing his gaze back to the ineffectual text.  At such times, it was imperative to discover a new route of conversation.  "So…" he said awkwardly.  "Any luck with the curse?  Find how to work the wonky?"

At that, the Witch's face brightened and she nodded enthusiastically.  "Oh yeah.  Well, it's not all completely worked out.  Got its kinks and whatnot, but I think I could definitely work it on you…if, for some weird reason, I need to.  There's not much change in the ritual.  I used Ms. Calendar's old program to translate the document."  She stopped and rolled her bright eyes.  "It's been so long!  I had to dig out my old computer to find software compatible with it.  I never noticed how quickly things get outdated.  The curse mentions Angel's name twice…so I think if we had to, we could put yours in there—no prob."

Well, that was reassuring, though he didn't know how helpful it would be in the end.  He was simply grateful that she felt useful.  He suspected things would pretty much be left up to Buffy.

"It's amazing," the Witch continued.  "To think…that curse was so hard for me to work.  I looked at it last night and was all like, 'Whoa…I could do that now.  Right here.  No big.'"

"You've come a long way, pet," he agreed.

A scowl crossed her face, brief but effective.  "Yeah.  Went from computer geek to Lady MacBeth in just four years."

"Ah, ah."  William quirked a brow.  "We'll 'ave none of that.  'Sides, I went from the Big Bad to a bloody poof of a boy scout in three.  Wanna compare notes, luv?"

Willow fought for a minute but her humor got the better of her, and she offered a large, grateful grin.  "I wouldn't worry," she assured him.  "Don't think anyone will mistake _you _for a boy scout anytime soon."

"Sure as hell hope not.  Might be all soul-having, but I got an image to upkeep."

"Hate to break it to you, Buster, but your reputation was pretty much shot the minute you showed up here and started acting like the son Giles never had."

William smiled brightly.  "Yeah.  Look what that old git's made me into."

"Nothing you didn't let him."

"'S right.  Absolutely."  With a sigh, the smile melted once more from his face, and William cast his gaze downward again.  "I can't let 'em down, you know.  'Im or her.  Gotta find out what the blazes this bloody thing means."

Willow bit her lip and stepped forward.  "Is there anything I can help you with?  Anything at all?"

"I don' think so, but I 'preciate the notion."  His eyes told a different story.  Hazarding a glance to the librarians, he finally explored the contents of the sack she had brought him, discovering—to his delight—a pack of blood and a zip-lock bag filled with Wheatabix.  "Ah, Red," he said gratefully.  "You sure know the way to this man's heart."

A tickle of mirth overcame her briefly.  "Hate to tell you, buster, but I'm just the delivery girl.  That's all in the care of your ingenious, however impatient, supplier." 

"Well, Ripper does know how to motivate me," William conceded, practically tearing the bagged blood open with blunt teeth.  "I was getting all sorts of rumblies in that region, anyways."

"Glad I could help."  Willow smiled again before casting her gaze to the open manuscript.  There she lingered as he heartily drank, not noticing that he vamped out.  He was careful not to spill; technically, food wasn't allowed anywhere on the property.  He received the vague notion that being caught downing a bag of blood wouldn't put him right with the workers. 

The comprehension came slowly.  He watched it tackle her eyes, lighting up fiery pupils with radiant understanding.  Then to her cheeks, rousing a breathless rouge to otherwise pale skin.  And lastly, her smile intensified to heights of terrific magnitude.  She was tugging at his arm before he had a chance to voice his inquisition.

"Geryon…Giles said he took the name from _The Inferno, _right?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, look!  _Slayer;_ _Even night ends two at circle _— _Corou.  _Circle!  The circles of hell, or whatever?  What if he took this directly _from_ the book?  What if the—"

William groaned and smacked himself in the forehead.  "I am such a git!" he growled, lurching over, seizing a fresh page of notebook paper, and beginning again.

The new additive made for a simple translation.  Annoyingly simple.  The vampire spent the next few minutes grumbling about his lack of insight—muttering things Willow couldn't possibly hear, though she detected the words _ponce, prat, _and _nincompoop _more than once.  He stunk of self-aimed aggravation.

"I'm a bleedin' wanker," William snarled, throwing his pencil down with finale.  "Right 'ere; in fron' of me the whole time!  God, I've lost my edge."

"Spike—"  

"I mean it.  My brain's all rotted out.  This sodding trip has taken it out of me."

"Spike!  What does it say?"

At that, he blinked and leaned forward, shaking his head still.  "Right.  Directly from the text.  Canto VIII—prat spelled everythin' out, o'course—Circle Seven Round Two.  Clue's somewhere in there.  Be a doll an' fetch me a copy of _The Inferno, _would yah?  Grab two if yeh wanna help."

She returned shortly with the requested material, and they dove headfirst into work.  There were only two copies in the entire library.  One translated into English, the other in fluent though foreign with no helpful sidebars.  She offered it to him without bothering to ask how sharp his Italian was.  There was no need.

"I think," Willow suggested after a few minutes of mindless flipping, "that it's at the end.  The clue…'even night ends two'—get what I mean?  Flip to the end of Canto VIII.  What's the last line?"

Immediately complying, William tore across the last page of the indicated text.  Something tight and restrictive caught in his throat, and slowly, he began to read.  _"Io fei gibetto a me de la mie case."_

"What does it _mean?" _The Witch was practically shouting, ignoring the looks of perturbed indignation other patrons of the library delivered.  In that minute, it seemed she had forgotten that she had a perfectly capable copy sitting in her waiting grasp, pages away from unearthing the riddle herself.  Instead, her eyes focused demandingly on the vampire, who took a long beat to find his words.

"It means—when all put together: 'I am one who has no tale to tell.  I made myself a gibbet of my own lintel.'"

Willow frowned.  "What does _that_ mean?"

"That the Slayer's aimin' to set herself up right quick, an' we—"

The thought went incomplete with the sudden persistence of a loud shrill vibrating from the Witch's purse.  Another montage of irritation wafted in their direction, but the damage was already done.  She leapt to her feet and seized her cell phone—suddenly cluing into the sense of displaced frustration emanating from the staff.  A stoutly woman with a mean face had paraded forward, making sure to put herself between William and his friend as Willow turned down an aisle of books to answer her call.  

Then the librarian was scolding him, face red with anger.  It was obvious she was attempting to exercise the same restraint she was preaching, but the vampire had hit some pivotal nerve.  He didn't capture much from her tangent as he struggled to hear what Willow was discussing, but several select words like _delinquent, no respect, _and _I don't care who your friends are—we bend the rules for no one _stood out in all their inglorious condescension_.  _It wasn't until the Witch returned, phone curled in grasp, expression pale that he snapped to the present.  Something within ran dreadfully cold.

The librarian was still whispering vehemently.  Dismissively, he waved her off and muttered an insincere, "Umm, yes.  So sorry.  Won' happen again."  Without waiting for a reply, he tore away and approached his companion, eyes wide with concern.

There was no denying it.  _Buffy _was his first and only coherent thought.  "What happened?"

Willow couldn't speak.  Her mouth was open and words were ready to pour, but she couldn't bring herself to force anything out.  William's patience ebbed uncontrollably.  He was seconds away from either slapping her silly—rather until the chip knocked him out on impact—or running to make sure Buffy was all right.  What seemed like hours crept by before she met his gaze fully, returning to herself in all sense of judgment.

Her words cut him like deep shards of crimson glass.  

"It's Dawn." 


	22. Be My Gallows

**Chapter Twenty-One**

The stillness of the roads unnerved him.  Not even half past six, and already an unspoken abandonment had seemingly grasped the town.  Event local hoodlums were not out causing their normal mischief.  The Bronze looked relatively dead as he steered Willow onward.  Granted, a few people had hit the streets—but for a Friday night, things were most certainly too serene.

It was as though the world had stopped.

William prodded the Witch for details along the way to Xander's, but she was regrettably ignorant of the more valuable information.  Dawn had allegedly phoned Buffy that morning shortly after arriving to alert her that she would be late arriving that night.  In response, the Slayer returned that she would be home promptly and not to argue.  There were dangerous things about, and this was certainly not the appropriate time to concern oneself with shopping or social gatherings of any sort.  When she had balked and not abided immediately, Buffy categorized it as typical teenage rebellion.

However, it was unnaturally dark out, even for the considered circumstances.  A half hour prior, she had talked Xander and Angel into accompanying her to the mall with no success.  Drained of ideas, she dropped by Diana Langston's house on the way back, and was informed by her mother that Diana had yet to return home as well.

That was when they got worried.  

School was mostly deserted and the least likely place to find wandering teens without any extra-curricular activities to their names, and yet all other possibilities seemed illogical.  Despite Dawn's tendency to disobey sisterly orders, she was mostly responsible, if not predictable, in habits.  If she wasn't at the mall, she was at a friend's house.  If she wasn't at a friend's house, she was at the mall.  The only other places she went were school and patrolling, and she knew enough not to go patrolling by herself anymore.  Not with the precautions being barked out from every which corner.

The panicked phone call to Willow was made directly after locating the drained body of Diana in the school basement.  Vampires were the immeasurable verdict—and Buffy summarized by the indications of a struggle that Dawn, for the ten thousand nine hundred and eight sixth time of her life, had been abducted.

"It really doesn't happen all that much anymore," the Witch explained hurriedly as they paced their way to Xander's.  "I mean, since Dawn turned into The Super Mini-Slayer, she's been very self-reliable and hardly gets into any jams.  Granted, her mouth does have a way of running away with her…but—"

"If the Nibblet's been taken, it's 'cause Geryon's gettin' closer.  'E wants the Slayer."  William was practically sprinting.  "I knew that prat would try somethin' like this.  Bit shoulda known better than to go wanderin' around a dark basement.  Doesn' she take anyone seriously?"

"Dawn's still a kid, Spike," Willow retorted, unable to prevent her own frustration from leaking into her voice.  "And she takes after her sister.  She's not one to really follow the rules.  She probably went to find her friend and got caught."

"I'm goin' to rip her bleedin' throat out next time I see 'er," the vampire growled.  "Now's not the time to be all heroic.  Now's the time to think straight if yah wanna save your arse."

The Witch frowned.  "She couldn't have known—"

"'S all part of Geryon's plan."  The house was in sight now.  Angel, Buffy, Xander, and Giles were all on the front porch, talking animatedly, unaware of their hurried approach.  "Fo' the Slayer to make _a gibbet out of her own lintel._  To make her home be her bloody gallows.  Dawn's the key…in more ways than one.  'E knew he couldn't touch Buffy unless he got somethin' she loves.  So she would kill herself in the process of getting her back."

Concern was masked with rationality.  Her voice shook as she spoke. "I-it's not like Dawn's completely helpless, or-or that she's never been taken before."

"No.  But there's a firs' time for everythin', innit there, pet?"  William paused emotionally.  "If that git harms one hair on her head, I'll tear 'im apart limb for limb, or die tryin'."

"Don't you dare."  A sudden yank of his arm brought the vampire to a startling standstill, and his eyes leveled with the fiery infernos of a brassed off Wiccan.  "Don't you go do something stupid and get yourself killed.  Buffy couldn't take it if she lost Dawn _and _you.  We'll figure something out.  We always do."

Stubbornly, William shook his head, throat emanating a discontented growl.  "No.  'S different now, Red.  Everythin'.  I can' just wallow around an' wait fer somethin' to happen.  And bollocks 'f she doesn' like it.  I won' sit around on my bum waitin' fer news.  Tha's what you an' Harris are to do."

At that, a cloud of darkness flashed over Willow's face; almost hurt, if not annoyed.  "Hey!  Why do _we _have to wait?  I mean—hello—really powerful witch right here!"

"Exactly.  Mighty powerful witch who's been knackered up enough a time or two to go really bad.  'Sides, I need you 'ere, Red.  'F somethin' happens that we weren't countin' on, you might end up being a last resort."

"Oh no.  No. No. No.  I am so tired of being 'oh, last resort' girl.  It doesn't work with Buffy anymore, and it sure as hell isn't going to work with you."

Vehemently, William paused in stride, dark eyes glowering over her with the utmost enormity.  They challenged each other with unrelenting gazes—stubborn and grounded in the oldest of convictions.  Many had fallen under the influence of Willow's 'resolved face' in the past, he knew, but hell if he allowed himself to yield.  "Listen," he growled.  "I got me enough to worry about without adding you to the list.  Also made me a promise to Stay Puft that I'd watch out for you—make sure you don't fall.  Don't aim to go back on that now.  This'll be up to me, the Slayer, and Peaches, should he decide to tag along.  Can't really speak on behalf of Buffy, but this is sorta her gig, and I doubt any words of advice would keep her from runnin' after her sis."  He took a step forward.  "You though.  You, Harris, and Ripper—you lot's got your lives ahead of you.  You can't keep runnin' about like this.  You're made of tough stones, pet, but stones can get smashed easier than you think.  Jus' stay an' work your mojo.  Be ready for anythin'."

The biting conviction behind Willow's eyes flared in brief with heightened intensity before she inevitably conceded with a nod of defeat.  "Yeah, all right," she grumbled.  "But I don't like it.  You're being pushy and stubborn and…mean…"

He huffed a breath of false pride.  "Components of being the Big Bad, baby.  Neutered or not.  Soulful or not.  I'm still—"

"A humongous pain in the ass.  All right?  I get it.  Let's get moving."  

It was Giles who saw him first, and his eyes softened in glazed relief.  Without alerting the others, he hurried off the porch to meet them, stepping immediately in pace with the vampire while nodding a distracted hello to Willow.  "Thank goodness," he said breathlessly.  "We don't know how much time we have.  I practically had to hogtie Buffy to keep her from going off without conferring with you first." 

"It's going to be me, the Slayer, an' Peaches," William retorted, not pausing in stride.  "I don' 'ave a bleedin' clue where we're gonna start, but somehow, I don' think this ponce'll hide long.  'E took the Bit intendin' for Buffy to come after her.  'S only a matter of time before he lets us see 'im."  A brief pause as the others spotted them, waving them over with fierce intensity.  "I worked out that code, with a lil help from Red."

The Watcher drew in a shuddering breath.  "Do I even want to know?"

"Prat took it right from Dante, along with his purloined name.  Canto VIII at the very end says: _Io fei gibetto a me de la mie case."_

Giles groaned and came to a stop at the foot of the porch, ignoring the wealth of gazes under which they were immediately placed.  "'And I made my own home be my gallows,'" he recited.

"Or 'a gibbet out of my own lintel.'  Same diff."  William sighed.  "'E'll 'ave gone by the house, I reckon.  Seen it all empty-like."  With emphatic wisdom, he turned his attention to the crowd gathering around the railing.  He motioned to the Witch as his eyes locked with Xander's. "'S prolly best you lot set up there while me, Peaches, and the Slayer go out hunting.  We'll scope it out first, o'course, but if those vamps 'ave already been there, they won' be comin' back."

For the first time in several days, his eyes met Buffy's and held.  There was no time for exaggerated emotional pauses and reflections, but his gaze was ardent just the same.  The sort of promise of _I'm here and I won't let anything bad happen _soaring without the need for words.  Without the need for anything.  The concern he saw mounting within her killed him.  How many times would the fates allow this to happen before they left her alone?

He had a feeling she would be long dead and buried before destiny decided to stop messing with her.

"We'll get her back, luv," William murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear, though there was no denying to whom his statement was directed.  "'F I 'ave to rip off every vamp's head in this bloody town, we'll get her back."

The Slayer nodded.  "Yes we will."  Then, without waiting for the others to follow, she soared down the steps and set off down the street.  

William met Angel's eyes and nodded, and mutely, they tore after her. 

The walk was hurried and no words were shared.  He had seen that venomous gleam in her eyes more than once—that pivotal 'you fucked with me in the wrong way' malevolence that encouraged all creatures of any origin to run for the hills.  As suggested, the tenor at Revello Drive revealed more than one visit during their absence.  Buffy said nothing as she surveyed the damage.  Nothing inside had been withdrawn, of course; it wasn't in vampiric following to ally oneself with demons for support, and without outside help, no access to the interior could be gained.  But there were other minute destructions. Little things.

William watched the Slayer's face closely—carefully.  He noted the way her jaw set in that determined, fiery and familiar manner.  Several theories began circulating, but he didn't dare speak while she was thinking.  Not to drive her away from some pivotal realization.  

Angel occupied himself studying the insignia entrenched on the door.  He touched it studiously, as though the senses would interpret the meaning on the slightest whim.  The look on his face betrayed displacement.

"We should split up," the Slayer finally whispered, drawing both pairs of eyes squarely to her resolute form.  "This guy…this…the Master wants me by myself.  I'll give it to him, if that's what it takes."  A wealth of oppositions filled his throat immediately, but Buffy met his gaze before he could voice any and shook her head in a manner that informed him promptly her will would not be altered.  "I can't waste time worrying over dreams and other nonsense.  This is what I do.  The most important things right now is getting Dawn home safe and sound.  We'll have more luck if we're not together."

He couldn't help it.  The comment was there and begged to be heard.  "We'll 'ave _better _luck if we're not all dead."

An aggravated grumble filled her throat.  It rang with so much familiarity that William had to take a beat of recollection.  Within seconds, his mind flashed to every look of raw irritation she had sent him, every sneer that suggested he was too slow to grasp a given concept, every time she had snickered and made a joke on his behalf.  _That _was the Slayer he knew.  Not the girl sobbing many confessions, proclaiming love that couldn't possibly exist—pursuing _him _while he placed the much needed distance between them.

Apparently, she recognized the gesture for what it meant, as well, and her eyes softened immediately.  The notion was brief and she was back on task within a beat.  "I don't have time for this," Buffy grumbled.  "And neither does Dawn.  I know I can handle myself on my own.  Do either of _you _have an objection to fighting the evil without backup?"

"Yeh, pet, you handle yourself _real _well," William retorted hotly.  "Wasn't jus' the other night when—"

"SPIKE!  For God's sake, shut up!"

No tenderness or aching resolution in her tone.  No endearing marks for his well-made point, nothing to suggest that he meant any of what she had sworn days before.  No indication of that lasting patience she had always granted Angel and Riley—despite impending circumstances.  It was truly like old times.

The emphasis on his former moniker was noted with dry acknowledgement.

He felt his demon rising at the notion, but calmed just as quickly.  "Whatever eases you, Slayer.  Little Bit's worth more to me than wastin' time out 'ere squabblin'.  But I don' see how we're going to do her any good if one of us—" He nodded to Angel "—ends up in a dustpan."

"You won't."  There was nothing to suggest how this ominous knowledge occurred to her—she just knew.

And oddly enough, that seemed to settle things.

Sunnydale was a town of modest size and many graveyards.  The average funeral home toll accumulated so rapidly with each passing year that adding more hollow ground to the town's reputation seemed to be an annual event.  However, it was decided amongst the three that a cemetery was the least likely place for the Master to have taken up residence.  It was too obvious, for one thing, and her nights were occupied patrolling those grounds, anyway.  Had there been any unusual activity to suggest a nest of vampires were familiarizing themselves with the territory, she would have been clever enough to notice the signs.

Okay, so no graveyards.  

There were the usual places, of course.  The mansion that had remained deserted since Angel's departure seven years earlier.  The Bronze.  The factory.  That old castle Dracula had occupied that seemed to materialize and disappear all within one evening.  Places that had seen too many fights to really take one more into account.  

There was, of course, the Hellmouth.  And that was where Buffy first volunteered to explore.  Grudgingly, William accepted the Bronze on the eye-rolling worthy promise that he would work and not drink.  He didn't have time to go over the logicality in her concern, and decided, in the end, to let it slide.  Anxiety had likely sent her in the pathway of former habits—and even so, it wasn't like he didn't deserve it.  That left Angel to tend to the places least likely to see action this evening, but all ground did have to be covered.  They agreed to meet again within an hour at Revello Drive.  Should one of the party not arrive, the remaining two were to assume Geryon had been found and progress to such location immediately.   

William did not like this.  Not one aspect of it.  The plan was full of too many holes, and he didn't trust Buffy not to wander off after investigating the Hellmouth to other possibilities they had not discussed.  He didn't trust _himself _not to do the same.  It was all bloody ridiculous.  The thought of the Nibblet out there in the clutches of some vampiric madman, successfully being used as bait to lure two arbitrarily selected vamps and a Slayer with more than one death wish to her name made his insides furrow with rage.

If he could not trust himself, there was no way he could trust her.  Not with her sister out there.  Dawn wasn't exactly helpless; she didn't need to be to get herself killed.

Yet there was no alternative.  The sweep at the Bronze was thorough though made with haste.  He busied himself whirling girls who looked distinctly like the Nibblet to face him and left them filled with puzzlement as he moved on.  All the backstage rooms and secret compartments that people weren't supposed to know about were searched as well—but she wasn't there.  The air did not carry Dawn's scent.  His inward tinglies failed to alert him to a recognizable presence.  She was definitely not being held at the Bronze.

The familiar alleyway outside the nightclub was vacant, though it did little to ease his nerves.  As the nights grew longer, the crowds populating the regular hangouts became less and less innumerable.  William sighed heavily and reached for his cigarettes.  His feet commanded him onward to the Hellmouth but he refused to comply.  Something told him Dawn was nowhere near a place the Scoobies would think to investigate.  The purpose behind her abduction was abundantly clear, and he didn't reckon the Master would wait too long before making his move.

His thoughts trailed to Buffy in everlasting concern.  Any involvement on his part—despite purity of intention—would inevitably brass her off.  Right now, her thoughts mingled only with the safety of her sister.

And the Slayer herself?  

Nothing would be discovered at Sunnydale High.  Had Geryon intended to hold the young Summers girl there, Buffy's slayer senses would have gone haywire the minute she discovered Diana Langston's body.  

This continuous reserve was petty and stupid.  There were much more important things afoot.  

To the Hellmouth it was, then.  

Beyond finding Buffy and emphatically pointing out the holes in the unremitting game of ring-around-the-rosy, he was at a loss for what to do.  They couldn't retreat and wait for someone to come to them.  Not with Dawn's life on the line.  And yet, any action seemed futile; the Master would not be traced until he willed it so.   

_So help me, _he thought begrudgingly.  _If they hurt the Bit…_

Something hard fell to the pit of his stomach—a cool, extra-sensory wave washing over him.  The motion was brief but there was no denying it: the instantaneous trigger of his defenses.  The way his demon emerged so thoughtlessly.  A growl erupted from his throat and his nostrils flared into the telling air.  William stopped in mid-stride and turned.  

There were three.  Three newbloods, from the looks of it.  Three whom had just been sired, perhaps earlier that week with the lightened emphasis on patrolling.  Three that smelled of blood.  Three that had been sent to him.

The bleached blond's lips drew up a tantalizingly confident smirk.  "Wha?  This it?  Come on, now.  Bleedin' Master must 'ave at least a few stones in 'im.  Can't bare to share more?"

A growl and it began.  It was a dance he had choreographed so long ago.  The first attacked without thought and was kicked back a second later.  Back and out of eyesight.  But not gone.  Never gone.  Another came forward—a bit more thoughtful, to his credit.  William backed several paces, wishing fervently for a weapon.  

It was an alley.  He could improvise.

Then they all came at once.  Each from a different angle, each aiming for a different body part.  A stake appeared from nowhere, though regretfully, not in his hands.  William inhaled needlessly and dove for the ground, rolling out of a tangle of arms and legs and to his feet at a safe distance away.  The entrance to the Bronze tempted him in offer of meager sanctuary, but he knew better than to endanger more lives by leading a pack of hungry vampires into an all-you-can-eat hormone fest.  

Besides, William the Bloody ran from no fight.  

The platinum vampire eyed the weapon clutched in the middle attacker's hand avariciously, drawing in another unnecessary breath and circling around the snapping fangs and jaws.  He snickered and attempted to bluff without anything to show for it.

"Come now," he taunted.  "Surely one of you wants a taste of the Big Bad.  Or p'raps I'm too demon for the likes of you."

Well, didn't that take him back?  If only Drusilla could see him now. 

The acerbic jest was all the motivation required.  Again, all three lunged; stake aimed poetically for his heart.  William kicked him back clumsily, sending a punch to his blind corner before he pivoted to throw off the last.  With every blow, he seemed to be in the clearing—then they came reeling back for more.

The trouble with over-confidence was both the ill-fated attempts to prevent it from going to one's head and the smashing job it did fogging the level of peril in any given situation.  To say William suffered from such regretful tidings was wrong—he merely possessed the misfortune of carrying an overload of Spike's former characteristics.  Though the first initial minutes of his predicament passed with marks to his credit, he rapidly drew upon the irrefutable evidence that he was looking to be in serious trouble if he didn't think quickly.

It wasn't his life—or unlife—that he feared for.  The smell of blood coated the air.  Living blood; a step away from a vampire that both fed and drained their supplier.  If these prats bested him, they would likely use him to play on the Slayer's weaknesses, rendering her alone in the position where there was only time to save one life.

_Dawn, _he thought desperately, ducking out of the way of an accelerating fist but finding himself on the ground the next minute by a blow from the back.  There was no doubt about that, and he felt at peace.  That was the way it should be.

Then he hopped to his feet.

Two of the three attackers were recovering a series of assaults near a darker portion of the alley.  William focused his attention on the vamp holding the stake—determined to wheedle it into possession one way or another.  He seemed to be the brightest of the assailants and had thus far managed to evade severe injury.  However, the look of him stank of newbism.  The bleached blond smirked assertively and stepped back with open arms—welcoming an attack.

Then he froze, and his eyes narrowed as his nostrils flared.  There was something terribly familiar about the scent of that blood.  The aroma, the musk, the… 

It took only a second to piece together, and before he could stop himself, William released his demon in a fit of hysteria and charged.  Stake be damned; it held nothing against searing fury.  His deepest animalesque roots emerged without prompt.  There was no thought beyond the blackness—no rational notion swaying in the collective turmoil of his cavity.  Nothing beyond her face.  Nothing beyond, _'You drank from purity itself, you sick, twisted fuck!'_

The stake was in neither's grasp.  William hadn't noticed.  Black blood sprayed across the ground, pouring candidly from a series of open wounds and inflictions.  Something primal tore at his vocals.  And then he was yelling, screaming in unkempt outrage, pounding the demon into the ground with every vigorous drive.  

"I'll tear your sodding limbs off, you bloody bastard!" he roared.  "How _dare_ you touch her?!  I'll rip your bleedin' head off!"  Before he could stop himself, his fangs had latched into the vamp's throat and began to tear.  He had never bitten another of his kind in a manner that wasn't affectionate.  God, he wanted to taste the fucker's blood.  Wanted to eat right through the skin and gnaw his head off.  He withdrew, though, when the first coherent waves broke through a longstanding fortitude of mad internal screaming.A long trail of blackness covered his face, and there was nothing but rage behind his eyes.  

The vamp under him writhed in pain—his howls for mercy at last reaching William's ears.  There was none to give.  He curled his hand around what was left of the newbie's throat, yellow gaze burning maliciously, daring him to look away. "Is she alive?" he managed to growl, spitting blood onto dark concrete.

The vampire made a move that suggested reply, but all he produced was a disgusting gargle of fluids.

Sounds behind him.  The bleached blond didn't pay attention.  His grip constricted dangerously.  "Is she alive, you fucking rot?"

"Yessssssss!" the vamp hissed desperately.  "It…just…a…tasssssste…"  

William released another roar of vehemence, tearing away what was left of the whelp's head with one furious stroke.  And before he could release another cry, the struggling being beneath him vanished in a whirl of dust.

It was only then he remembered the other two.  Too late.  As he attempted to swivel around, the oncoming blast of another vampiric implosion rang through the air.  Wearily, he turned his eyes upward.  The taste of dead blood ran bitter in his mouth.

Then he saw her and offered what he could of a grin.

"Buffy," William coughed, fighting to his feet.  "When did you get 'ere?"

The Slayer stood directly in front of him, holding her former Watcher's crossbow, the look on her face drawn between concern and horror at his rugged appearance.  "About the time you went postal and tore that vamp's throat out."  She waved through the dispatching cloud of dust.  "And hey—really gross.  What provoked you to—"

"Why are you 'ere?  Find somethin'?"

"No."  She sighed and looked down.  "I was at the school when I got this…feeling that you were about to do something incredibly stupid.  Had to come."  Her eyes darkened as she studied the black ring circling his mouth.  William realized he was still sporting bumpies but didn't think to draw them inward.  Any composition of thought left him when her hand touched his mouth.  "What happened?"  There was fear behind her fortitude; voice barely above a whisper.  "Why did you do this?"

She searched his eyes.  He knew what she was looking for.

_Yep, still there, luv, _he reflected, taking her hand and drawing it away from his blood-stained lips.  "I smelled her on 'im.  The Nibblet.  Her blood."  The Slayer's eyes widened in horror, and he quickly added, "She's all right, an' all.  Least tha's what he said before I tore his bloody head off."  William exhaled deeply, eyes darting around in increasing awareness that another attack party could visit them at any minute.  "Listen, pet, this ponce aims to get us all separated.  'S what he wants.  'E'll come to you soon enough.  An' he won' kill the Bit.  Can't afford to.  All's it would do is brass you off.  Wouldn't get you there any quicker."

Buffy looked appalled.  "You better believe it would."

"Even if you knew that was exactly what he wants?"

She didn't reply.  There were no words.

"See, luv?  Best find Peaches before they bloody well try to take 'im out, too.  We—"

The sound traveled so rapidly through the air that his first instinct was to pounce the Slayer and drive her to the ground, using himself as her protective sheath.  However, by the time the thought had birthed and died, she was already crumpled—a motionless heap.  The action took him by such surprise that all he could do was reach and catch her before she hit the pavement.

William's eyes turned upward, a primitive growl rippling from his throat.  No one was in sight; no telling scent befouled the air.  A dart, small and proud, was embedded deeply in her throat.  He yanked it out immediately—hasty and without thought, but it was too late anyway; the toxins were already sweeping through her system.  

His mind raced down a labyrinth encircled with dead-ends.  William drew in a breath and lifted her into his embrace.  There was nothing to do but run for it now.  Run for it and hope that faint, distant whizzing sound was just—

It struck categorically, hitting him when there was nowhere to hide.  And without ceremony, he, too, hit the ground with deathly stillness.


	23. Nevermore

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

The room around her was blurry—a wave of fuzzy shapes and seemingly intangible objects.  A sharp pain jittered across her back, alerting her to the numbness infecting her neck.  Buffy squeezed her eyes together and took in a shuddering breath.  Her body ached in affect.  She didn't want to see where she was.

The surface was cold.  Long minutes ticked by, revealing nothing but silence that stretched forever.  The air seemed odorless—she had never made study of the atmosphere's various tangs, and wouldn't have noticed it if there was something to notice.

There was _nothing.  _

The events accumulating finally came soaring back.  Buffy's insides went cold with dark comprehension.  Her tinglies were shooting off the wire, something sharp though insubstantial jabbing her in the gut.

"Dawn," she murmured, attempting and failing to sit up.  Her voice sounded far away, dry and raw—leaves scratching at her throat.  At last her eyes edged open, but there was nothing to see.

Nothing.

"Dawn?" she called again, knowing somewhere that it was fruitless.  No answer came.

Blackness.

Buffy drew in another painful breath and forced herself to wobbly feet, stumbling over as her hand shot out to find an entity of measurable support.   Nothing greeted her for several yards, and the thought arose that she had been abandoned somewhere in the wilderness.  It sounded too ridiculous within her mind's cavity to voice aloud, and just as the notion passed, cold steel brushed against her skin.  An undeniable barrier.  Pieces were slowly fitting together.  Seconds calculation verified she was in a room.  A holding pen.

Trapped like an animal.

The Slayer let out another quaking breath, pressing her back against the wall before sliding to the ground.  Though awake, she could tell she had been sufficiently drugged.  Her voluntary reflexes were not obeying—rather behaving as though under supervision: monitored and even controlled.  Abandonment seared every responsive nerve, ignoring the thousands of questions that bombarded an already overloaded mind.  Where was she?  What had happened?  Where was Dawn?  What had they—(and who were 'they'?)—done with Spike?

Buffy's breathing leveled as her nerves calmed.  There was little dispute concerning whom had taken her or for what purpose.  Her mind raced with unnerving consideration.  Her last distinct memory entailed falling forward and landing into the platinum vampire's arms.  The attacker had targeted her from the shadows—and she knew William would not have given her over.  Whoever it was had incapacitated him, as well.

Or worse.

That thought sent a sour taste down her throat.  Buffy exhaled again and her stomach rumbled.  She hadn't eaten since that morning.  

Something flickered in the far corner, bursting through the silence with unspoken calamity.  The Slayer started in surprise, heaving herself to her feet out of defensive reflex, but finding the legs she depended on were too wobbly for support.  Then her insides engulfed in warmth, and a premature sensation of unbridled relief washed through her.

In the corner opposite her sat William, lighting a cigarette.

Somehow, through unspoken understanding, he realized the exact minute she recognized him that she had made the connection.  The calm in his voice was disconcerting.  She would have preferred a bit of panic.  "You're awake," he observed softly, indicating he had been watching her for some time.

"Wh…where are we?"

"Don't know."  A huff of smoke materialized through the darkness.  "Did plenty of bangin' around earlier that you slept right through.  Can't find a bloody door or light.  Might be in Bulgaria, for all I know.  Guess they gave you a stronger dose than me.  Prolly didn't reckon takin' out two at once."  

"How long have we been here?"

William sighed, and a cloud of smoke rolled with him.  "Woke up 'bout an hour ago.  How long we were 'ere before that is anyone's guess.  Made sure you were all right, then tried to find the sodding exit.  Gave up.  Watched you sleep."

Buffy nodded and again attempted to rise to her feet, but her footing caught her off balance and once more, she fell to the ground.  Only this time, the vampire—lithe and limber—had bolted from his position to catch her.  She found herself in his protective arms, lighted fag dangling between his lips.  The smell—one she usually rebuked—comforted her in an oddly familiar fashion.  A reassurance that he was here.  That she wasn't—as she so often found herself—alone.  

"Careful, luv," he cooed soothingly, guiding her to the wall once more, finding purchase with her.  "They drugged you up right good.  Made me a bit woozy, too, wanderin' 'round 'ere."  A breath rumbled through his body, and she relaxed against him, giving into the temptation set by the chemical compounds fighting through her bloodstream.  "I 'aven't heard or seen Dawn, but I got a feelin' she's nearby."

The sound of her sister's name brought her back from any pivotal edge of tranquility.  "Dawn," Buffy muttered, attempting to sit up, only to be brought back by the vampire's insistent embrace.  "No.  Stop.  We got to…Dawn…gotta get to…"

"Shhh, shhh.  Save your strength, luv.  Bloody prats won't leave us in 'ere forever, an' I'd much prefer to 'ave a slayer at full power.  That stuff they doped you with was mighty potent."  William stroked her hair calmingly as she settled against him once more, reluctant vibes quaking through her body.  "'S only a matter of time."

Little by little, she was warming up to him, softening into his hold.  Allowing him to hold.  It was beyond sensationalism.  Beyond any form of soothing remedy the petty world could offer.  Buffy's eyes fluttered as she battled again with sleep.  No, no.  Had to stay awake.  Had to in case…

Had to talk.  She would stay awake as long as she was speaking.  "Why didn't you say something when I woke up?" she asked, wondering when on God's green earth William became so comfortable.  Had he always been?  She knew she enjoyed resting against him after times of intimacy—despite how feverishly she had denied it—but this was just soothing.  Reassuring.  The sort of embrace people spent their whole lives trying to discover.  The way he held her with such warm encouragement and unspoken love.

The vampire hesitated and rumbled into her hair.  "I was watchin' you, pet.  Guess I got caught up in it.  Didn't think to speak till I saw you thought you were alone."

Buffy smiled against him, and felt a growl ripple through him in return.  "Very reassuring." 

He ran a hand through her hair appreciatively, clutching her to him, as though trying to absorb her warmth.  When she did not complain, he rested his cheek on her head, enjoying a moment's peace.  

For a long beat, there was nothing in the universe save two kindred souls locked together in a moment of closeness so exceedingly greater than anything the union of two bodies could conjure.  A world of abbreviated concern—where these earthly agonies failed to drive anyone away to a proverbial point of reasoning.  

It amazed her—this continuous kindness.  No matter how horrible she was to him, he always came back.  

Buffy sighed, closing her eyes tightly and willing herself away.  "Why not just kill us?" she whispered.  "Why go to all this trouble?"

His arms tightened around her.  "Bloke wants us to suffer.  Prolly aims to make you watch a whole walloping load of badness before offing you.  'S not any fun if you can't soak up the pain."

"I need to get to Dawn," she stated again, making no bodily move to suggest any intention of rising.  "She must be so scared."

"Not now," William retorted.  "At first, sure, but the Nibblet's got a good head on 'er shoulders.  She's sharp enough to know if they 'aven't killed her by now, she's safe for the time being."

The Slayer went rigid.  "Until the Master decides she's served her purpose.  God…I…I got to get out of here."

"An' you will."

"How can you be so sure?  So…_calm?"_

"'Cause I know panicking won't do a bloody thing to help."

Buffy heaved a breath and sat up, painfully retracting herself from William's reach.  "What about Angel?"

With annoying negligence, he shrugged.  "Dun know.  Let's hope 'e got to Ripper when we didn't meet up with 'im.  Only problem, luv, is the Scoobies wouldn't know the firs' place to start lookin'."  A shuffle behind her as he sat up, leaning comfortably against the wall.  "IF they got 'im, though, 'e's prolly in another holdin' cell, or what all."

A small silence settled between them, almost awkward where noise desperately needed to fill the empty gaps.  Buffy took in everything.  Apart from the vampire's huffs of nicotine, there was no visible light anywhere in the room.

Something took command of her—dawning with irrefutable knowledge.  She was drastically unprepared for whatever it was she was aiming to face.  The past couple weeks had been void of conventional study.  Too enwrapped was she in settling the matters of her personal affairs.  Had she stopped nagging William for three minutes about this business concerning his soul and his reluctance to rekindle their doomed-from-the-beginning affair, she could have prevented Dawn's capture.  Could have prepared for what she would inevitably face.  These past few years were colored with over-confidence.  She had reached a point where death was just an omen—non-existent in all regards.

It was a simple conclusion to reach, given her inability to die and remain dead.

"My fault," Buffy whispered, voice practically inaudible.

The vampire stirred.  "What?"

"This…this everything.  Dawn's in danger now because I've been so goddamn selfish.  Wound up in my own little world with my issues."  She growled in frustration and banged her head against the wall.  "God!  I've been so…stupid."

William's face darkened—though she couldn't see it, and a snarl of discontent tickled his throat.  "No, this is _not _your fault.  Don't even begin to think it is."

"Well, how else am I supposed to look at it?!" Buffy cried ardently.  "I've been so focused on dealing with you that I overlooked the big picture.  I stopped worrying about my friends and more about making things right with you that I allowed my sister to become the bait to lure me here.  That's wrong, Will.  It's so wrong.  I can barely see straight for being so pissed at myself.  I'm a horrible, horrible person."

William growled and lunged for her, pinning her to the ground as shots of self-exasperation flared behind wounded albeit understanding eyes.  "Then it's _not _your fault, luv.  'S mine.  All mine.  You can't blame yourself for my mistakes."

"I do blame you!" she spat, writhing ineffectually beneath him.  "If you hadn't come back, I would never have gotten this distracted.  If you had just come clean with your goddamn soul in the first place, I wouldn't have had to force it out of you.  We spent more time arguing about blame and who had more right to love than…wasted.  It's all wasted.  _This _is why a slayer is destined to be alone in life.  Because of all the fucking distractions!"

The vampire grumbled course disapproval, but sat up and allowed her space just the same.  "I didn't want to come back.  Hell, I told Ripper it'd be a sodding distraction." 

"Yes, so you've told me.  And told me.  And told me.  Fuck your excuses.  Fuck it all."

"Look, pet, I didn't ask for anythin'.  Goodwill, love, forgiveness, any of it.  Least of all forgiveness.  An' yet you insisted.  I tried to distance myself, an' it didn't work.  You came to me anyhow.  All right?"  William fought to his feet.  "But if it makes you feel better to hate me fo' it, go on about it, then.  Your hatred is easier for me to accept."  There was no revocation of the proffered recognition of blame he voiced just seconds before, and though his eyes were cold, she knew he spoke the truth.  "That's the Buffy Summers I know."

The look she portrayed nearly resolved all negative means.  Another aching wind suddenly grasped her tortured core.  Stubbornly, she turned away from him, refusing to allow her mind and will melt again to the secretion of sweet tidings.  She could not look into those eyes she had hurt over and over.  Things were so much easier when she was angry with him.  There was that air of undeniable familiarity.  That which she knew how to react.  Where she knew what was expected of her.  

But she _did_ look at him, and it was her mistake.  No blame burned behind the ocean haze of his sea-born eyes.  None of these things could rightfully be accredited to him in harmful partiality. That was her folly, lived and relived as some infernal purgatory.

Buffy drew in a quivering breath and stifled a sob, returning to her original crime.  "I'm…I'm a horrible person."

The shaded hurt and anger dissolved from his expression without any potent influence.  At once, he was at her side again, taking her hands in his as she forfeited her tenacity to tears.  He caressed her sodden face with tender affection, beckoning her gaze to his with no success.  

"Buffy, look at me."

"No.  Leave me alone."

"Come on, Slayer.  What—"

"How can you do this?" She granted him her swollen eyes, though grudgingly.  "I'm so awful to you.  I always have been."

William smiled poignantly and wiped her face free in a motion of the utmost attachment.  "Because you're Buffy," he replied softly.  "This—being with you, feeling what I feel…it means all of it.  Every bloody part of what makes you who you are.  Wouldn't change it fo' anythin', luv.  You wouldn't be worth pain if you were any different."

By now, she had stopped crying and was back to staring at him in endless wonder.  Every breath he took, needed or not, seized hers from her lungs.  Poetry was a harp he played beautifully, pulling at each string even when he wasn't trying.  Her many faults were overlooked time and time again, reflected without judgment and always forgiven—no matter how she hurt him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, running a hand through his hair.  "Even when I'm supposed to love you, I end up doing something that causes more pain…"

"Don't," he murmured in soft protest.  "Don't say that.  Don't—"

"Someone once told me that you always hurt the ones you love."

William pursed his lips to trap a rumble.  "Someone that _wasn't _me."

Buffy sighed and cast her gaze downward.  "I know.  Oh, I know.  But you…you're so different now, and the same.  There's a part of you that will always be Spike."

At that, he looked away, face falling out of her reach.  "I'd change that 'f I could."

"I wouldn't.  Spike wasn't like Angelus."

"And you love him."

"I love _you—_whoever you are.  Isn't that enough?"

The vampire smiled sadly.  "Once, maybe."

"Stop being a gentleman.  It really wigs me out."

William arched a flawless brow.  "It's me, luv.  As I am now.  Take it or leave it."

Buffy sighed and urged his eyes upward, caressing his face with gentle tenderness.  A shuddering breath quaked through his body, trembling under her touch and doing little more than prompt her onward.  Through the darkness she saw his face—drawn to the heart of his blue gaze, as though it alone was the center if illumination.  Softly, cautiously, she moved forward, touching her lips to his with deceiving chasteness.  She felt him draw in sharp breath, not responding and not pushing her away; rather sitting there to enjoy the feel of forbidden bliss.  When she moved to deepen her touch, William rumbled against her, returning her fire with his own.  Lips clashed as their tongues battled mercilessly, small involuntary sounds filling the space silence once resided.  As soon as her knees buckled and threatened to collapse, he returned her initiative and gently pushed her to the ground, covering her body with his.

Then his hands were everywhere—encouraged and unbidden as his mouth became more insistent.  When at last he pulled away, Buffy took a much-needed breath of air, having forgotten its necessity in the surrender of pure rapture.  He darted to taste the still lingering salt of her tears, teasing her skin with blunt teeth as her hands swept through his hair and caressed the muscles in his back.

William turned his attention to her throat, nuzzling affectionately with an occasional nip at welcoming flesh.  Her legs parted and he accepted the invitation, rolling to lie between her thighs.  When she moved to draw his shirt over his head, he stiffened but did not refuse; and if anything, his attentions sharpened with alarming vehemence.  He crooned in pleasure to feel her hands against bare flesh, and a groan of ecstasy escaped her throat in rugged reply.    

"Oh God!" Buffy gasped, throwing her legs around his waist, seeking more friction.

William growled as she rubbed against him, tearing his mouth from her skin and blinking harshly to return to some sense of self.  "Buffy," he panted desperately.  "If I don't stop soon, I won't be able to."

"Then don't," she pleaded, drawing him down for another kiss.

A moan, plain and simple.  Sweet surrender.  His hands traced patterns on her belly, reaching to untuck her shirt and raise it over her head.  Her legs pulled him down further with brute force, earning another whimper and a frenzied tear of her upper garment when his seemingly infallible patience got the better of him.  

Skin on skin.  Infinitely better.

William sucked a sliver of the flesh on her neck between his teeth, hand covering a laced globe of flesh.  Buffy cried out in joy as he ground against her, and a single name past her lips, colored with bright elation.  

"…Spike…"

And just like that, it was over.  William paused in his ministrations with painful restraint and raised his head to look at her.  A small yelp squeezed out of her throat at the sudden standstill, demanding him without words, pleading him to continue.  But he would not.    

She reached for his face to see his eyes; her own filled with need and confusion as he pulled away completely, and out of her reach.

Buffy panted immodestly.  "What is it?"

Through the darkness, she could see him.  A silhouette against a darker backing.  She could nearly make out the soft, heartrending smile on his lips.  A deeper sort of understanding that left her miles from comprehension.

"It's not me you want, luv."

"What?"  The Slayer heaved a breath, attempting unsuccessfully to calm down.  She knew she was flushed and didn't care.  "How can you say—"

"An' despite everythin'…even if you love me, it'll never be what you need.  What you're lookin' for."

Tears sprouted to her eyes and she angrily blinked them away.  "Goddammit!  Why must you be so fucking rational?"

"Because no matter what you say, pet," he returned softly, "I am not the one you want.  Not really.  An' I never will be.  To use your image of what you desire to get my ya-ya's would be wrong an' selfish.  I won' do that to you." 

Buffy shook her head furiously, tears flowing freely.  In one last attempt, she reached for him, leveling their gazes even as he shrank with reluctance.  "But I love _you."_

William sighed.  "Only cause 'e was 'ere first."

"No.  That's not it.  That was never…" The Slayer saw she was fighting a losing battle, sighed in turn and looked down.  "Do you love me?"

Foul play.  An inequitable question—a startling shadow of an understanding she had once traded with Angel.  That seemed lifetimes ago. 

 The vampire frowned as his eyes darted away.  "I can't answer that."

A note in her voice grew desperate.  "Why not?"

"'S not fair, pet."

"To who?"

"Either of us."  William heaved another breath and edged away, out of her reach.  "I can't say.  Either answer would hurt you."  He paused once more.  "An' hurtin' you's something I won' do.  Never again."

"You're hurting me now!"  Buffy spat in empty respite, moving urgently to touch him even as he shifted further away still.  "This is killing me, William."

"An' if I were to say no?" the vampire replied rhetorically.  "That wouldn't hurt you?  Or yes?  That I love you so much I won' let myself 'ave you?  Won' let you 'ave what you say you want?  That wouldn't hurt you at all?"

Buffy emitted a muffled sob and shook her head furiously.  "Then you do.  I knew it.  I knew you had to."

"Spike had to.  As much as he hated it, it was somehow in his nature.  It was what he was meant for."  His eyes hardened but she saw shots of self-aimed disgust spark behind the façade.  "He left it to my _duty."_

Those were not his words.  He could not have convinced her even if he had not flinched.  She understood his motive, and even though that singular knowledge kept her from breaking completely, a deep wound carved her heart.

And she looked at his face to reflect her hurt and conception, drawing strength into her tone.  "The vampire doth protest too much, methinks."

William's gaze shot upward in immediate acknowledgement at her insight.  A small smile of impressed stability favored his features.  The streaming fondness that poured into his eyes betrayed everything he was trying to accomplish.  The love she saw took her breath away.

"Buffy," he whispered.  "I—"

A sudden burst of light shone into the room, so blunt that William hissed in instinct and recoiled into the shadows.  The Slayer gasped and seized her shirt, bringing it to cover her state of undress.  It came from above—the abrupt interruption, and she saw immediately that it was not sunlight that buffed so zealously.  Artificial brightness filled the pit, leaving nowhere to hide.

Buffy's vision began to clear, and she called out with false hope.  "Dawn?"

Then she saw them.  The deepest pair of maroon eyes anyone had ever possessed watching her with amused withdrawal, blinking once in silent repose.


	24. Little Death

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

For the first time in days, the rooms of the Summers residence on Revello Drive buzzed with conversation.  Most lights remained untouched, but the excited frustration pouring through warring voices could not be quenched.  Angel had arrived at Xander's basement two hours after the hunting party departed, wide-eyed and explaining in a panicked frenzy that Buffy had not met him at the approximated time.  Harris immediately suggested they go out searching and was silenced by the vampire for rationality in continued safety.  He related the state they found the Summers home in and proposed everyone move there for the time being.  Especially now that the Slayer was missing.

"Well," Xander was saying in an unsuccessful attempt of reassurance. "It's Buffy, right?  She typically doesn't follow the ru—"

"Spike's gone, too.  Spike, or William, or whoever.  If—"

"He is?" Giles echoed, paling in complexion.  "Oh dear.  Then something has happened.  I know Will—he's punctual to a fault."

Harris stifled a chortle.  "Yeah…about that…are we sure this isn't some crazy whack job and he's not the good twin?  Anyone else here not convinced?"

Both the Watcher and the vampire looked at him incredulously.

"What?  I'm just saying…"

"This is no time for jokes," Giles grumbled, voice raw with concerned irritation.  "Buffy is missing and Will…he was expendable.  To the Master, I mean.  He might have simply—"

A voice of much-needed reasoning sounded in return, coated with disagreement.  "No," Angel murmured.  "He's alive.  I would know if it were otherwise."

A brief silence settled, demanding calm with alarming neutrality.  Willow was seated by the window—listening only partly when her eyes snapped furiously to the vampire.  The look on her face was distant but present at the same time.  She had not spoken since Angel arrived and announced that the two people save Xander she was closest to were missing.  It was then that she raised her voice, masked with frantic worry.  "How?"  Her façade suggested an unhealthy expenditure of caffeine.

Giles glanced at her meaningfully, and was consumed with infinite understanding and gratitude.  "It's through blood," he explained softly.  "I suppose you could compare it to maternal instinct.  I can't believe I didn't think of it before.  Angel is William's grand-sire, and that connection—though not as potent as the bond formed between the immediate sire—is strong enough to relate significant loss.  And, needless to say, Will's complete absence would indicate something." 

"It goes both ways," the vampire added.  "Something went through me both times that Darla died."

"And he's okay, then?" Willow asked roughly.  "If he's okay, then Buffy has to be okay.  He wouldn't let anything happen to her.  Ever."

"If we presume they were taken at the same time and place."  The Watcher withdrew his glasses and consigned them to the hem of his shirt.  He had never felt so tired.  "But it doesn't make much sense to keep Will alive."

"Then there's a purpose," Angel replied sharply.  "There has to be.  Maybe they're going to use him."

Willow's eyes went wide with alarm.  "Oh God!  He's been having me research the curse…your curse."  She waved an arm in his direction.  "What if…oh God!  What if…?"

A grim silence settled over them once more.  

Giles cleared his throat.  "Ummm…even if that was the case…it was Spike who sought out his soul.  He wouldn't do anything."

"Anything but try to rape her again?" Harris snickered bitterly.

"Yes, Xander, repeat the very act that persuaded him to get a soul in the first place.  That sounds rational."  The Watcher rolled his eyes, though there was doubt behind them.  There was no mistaking the obvious.  William the Bloody was a trusted man.  Spike the Soulless Vampire was not.

Willow sighed heavily and shook her head.  "Well, we can't make any assumptions.  All we know is Buffy, Spike, and Dawn are out there somewhere, and we have to help them."

"It's better if you just wait here," Angel replied.  "If Buffy was overpowered—"

"Hey!  I'm Last Resort Girl!  Spike said so!  And Last Resort Girl says we've been spending too much time on our patooties and not enough out there fighting the big evil.  Look where it got them!" 

"Alive, for the time being," Giles retorted softly.  "But you're right.  We can't just sit here and—"

Angel grumbled in mild complaint, but conceded.  "Fine.  Rupert, you're with me.  Xander, Willow…stay here in case they come back and need help."

"Oh no!" the Witch huffed indignantly.  "You're not going to ditch me _again!  _That's my best friend out there!  I'm not going to just sit here twiddling my thumbs until I know that she's all right.  Besides, and do I really need to shout this—umm, magic?  Hello?  How about a locater spell?  Won't take long.  I'll just—"

Xander frowned.  "I don't like the idea of you messing with—"

"Well, get used to it.  It's who I am, and all those times when I'm not homicidal, I can actually be of some help."  Willow looked desperately to Giles.  "Please!  I can't stand this.  This…not helping crap.  It's stupid.  We've been in this thing together for, what?  Ten years now?  I don't think one lousy spell to find the Slayer and Sp-Will-whoever will hurt anyone."

The look she received could have frozen hell.  "Listen," Angel said, heaving a breath for emphasis.  "I need you here.  You and Xander.  Do your locater spell or whatever—that'll be enough to point Giles and me in the right direction.  If you want to be helpful, you'll stay put.  If we haven't found them by daybreak, I'm going to call my…associates and get them to come here and help."

"Your 'associates'?" Xander retorted skeptically.

"We work together.  Kind of deal with things of this nature."

"Slayers Incorporated?"

No one dignified that with an answer.

Willow pursed her lips, calming.  "You mean Cordelia, don't you?  And your son.  And…all those other people that I don't know."

Angel offered a dry smile.  "Not entirely sure that Conner would want to join me, but we can always try.  I was thinking along the lines of Fred and Gunn.  Cordy would want to come, I know.  Wesley, too, if he wants to tag along."

"Wow."  Xander looked thunderstruck.  "I feel so out of the loop."   

"I won't call them unless I need to," the vampire added quickly.  "We have enough to deal with in LA, and I'd prefer not to get them involved.  But…if this Master has risen, or done something to Buffy…it might be necessary."

Another silence—not quite as heavy.  Giles's eyes fell gravely, and he drew in a breath and he looked to Willow with resolution.  "Let's try the spell."

*~*~*

It seemed they were led forever down a tangle of corridors and chambers.  The darkness had not alleviated to the point of identifying the mystery behind the holding cavity, but with each passing minute, Buffy was more convinced that it was a place she was acquainted with.  There was nothing convenient to suggest location; all was feigned by sensory and impulse.  She just knew.

The Slayer was shackled and prodded, forced to the ground by a commanding hand from behind.  Though he was not beside her, she knew William was near.  Whatever chemicals had been injected through her system had yet to fully wear away.  The legs she depended on were stealthily unstable.  Her eyes pierced the shadows in futile search for her sister, but there was nothing to see.

Buffy attempted to ineffectually to flex her shoulders in the direction her instinct told her carried William.  When her vision finally started to return, she saw she had been steered ahead, and he was not made to follow.  Every fiber of her being demanded cautiousness.  A rage against the fire that was growing steadily in power as each minute passed.

"Will?" she exacted from the darkness, ignoring snickers crowding around her as the shadows in the distance materialized into tangibility.  "You still—?"

"'Ere, luv," came the familiar, wanted Cockney brogue.  "I can see you."

Buffy heaved a breath, amazed at how it pained her.  Through all her years as the Slayer, she had only endured a few instances that exposed her to normal human frailty.  It felt someone had grasped her very essence and yanked it out of reach.  There was nothing to suggest enhanced strength and durability.  Overconfidence, she saw, had shaded her pathway, leading her to believe in invincibility.  Death had not frightened her in many years.  She neither craved it or wished the prospect away—simply stopped believing it could ever successfully transpire.  

When nothing moved for a few minutes, her mouth drew into a thin smile.  "Wish I could say the same."

"Jus' stay with me, pet.  Everythin'll be all right."  There was a moment's pause.  "Is today the day, kitten?"

A terrible coldness washed over her with infinite understanding.  Buffy inhaled sharply once more, eyes clouding with tears of recognition.  "I think," she replied hoarsely.  "Oh God, it has to be."

"Stay with me," he repeated soothingly, though his voice sounded more and more distant with every syllable.  "Stay, stay, stay…"

_I'll try, _she tried to say, but the words lodged tightly in her throat—rendering her forgone and alone.  And then William was miles away, stretching across eternity, trying to reach her.  Reaching, reaching, but never succeeding.  

Then the blackness swallowed her.

The voice that echoed so menacingly in her ears lacked any means of conventional definition.  It was soft and metallic, malevolent and commanding.  Confident and eerie—ringing like a blade against grass.  Pliability that could be heard in a crowded room: something that would make all subjects of any kind yield and listen.  The pits of the creature's eyes glowed with magnificent wonder, capturing hers without ritual.  It was not the face that was hard to look at, but the eyes nearly did her in.  Gleaming maroon pits of endless torture suggesting fun among the wicked.  Something fell hard in the bottom of her stomach.  Was this what Dawn last saw?  Those eyes of pure malice?  Had the sight alone done her little sister in?

Buffy released a quivering breath and willed herself to slowly returning strength.  She understood William was still behind her, no further away than he had been a few minutes ago, despite the implied distance between them.  Through a swarm of confusion, she called his words to her psyche, repeating as though they were a sacred incantation.

_I have been led here for a reason._

That wasn't her thought.  From where had it originated?  The Slayer blinked, wanting to look down.  Its eyes commanded her upward still, shining into her, through her, with all the willful intention of a mischievous dryad.   

"Ms. Summers," the voice hissed with shards of glee.  "What a pleasure to meet at last."

Buffy flexed her shoulders again, hands cuffed constrictively against the small of her back.  A thousand angry words bombarded her throat, but she could speak none of them.

From behind, a potent _'Stay with me' _rang with incessant persistence.  

"Ah," crooned the voice.  "Nothing to say?  No ill-mannered quips to share?  No empty threats to give shape?  My, my, perhaps I overestimated you after all.  Is this all the challenge I am to expect?"

The Slayer fired daggers with her eyes; ounces of power returning like insulin shots.  "If you wanted more, you might have tried me at full strength," she retorted bitterly.  "Or were you too afraid I'd surprise you?"

"There she is," the Master replied coolly, stepping forward but not close enough to be completely seen.  The focal point behind ocular emphasis shone with adequate reasoning the threat implanted in his words.  "That's my girl.  There's the spirit of that little fireball whose career I have followed with such enthusiasm.  You are quite the troublemaker, aren't you, Ms. Summers?  You have enjoyed a decade of war on the demon world, mocking death with every step, and even taking the liberty of defying its permanent namesake.  Oh yes, I have heard much about you.  I was eager to see just how much was fact and what was construed from myth."

"So you decided to drug me up?"  Buffy's breaths were steadily gaining force.  "You must be really insecure."

An amused chortle tumbled out of the Master's throat, clearly anything but threatened.  He snickered in good humor and took another step forward.  "How bold of you," he commended with thick falsity.  "Such a brave little girl.  I have always valued the importance of knowing or—at the very least—anticipating your opponent's weakness.  I gave you ample time, Ms. Summers, and you had more than enough help guiding you along the way.  Your intentions were not so nobly motivated, were they?  Hmm?  Even in the eyes of danger, you took liberties over what was important to Buffy Summers and not what would keep the Slayer alive.  Tsk tsk.  What a shame."

There was no sense in denying the claim.  That much was true.  Buffy held in a breath and glared, though the menace behind it was gone.  Faded and nonexistent.  Still, she had to maintain her ground.  The Slayer drew in a deep breath and fortified her will, steadfast with resolve.  "Where is Dawn?" she demanded.

"Quite all right, for the moment."

"Where _is _she?"

There was no immediate callous reply.  Something in those maroon pits twinkled with merry delight.  "Mmm…rather bold of you," the Master mused, twiddling and pivoting to circle her.  "A Slayer forced to her last whim.  Bested before she knew what hit her.  My, my…what would your mother say?"

Buffy's face hardened with renewed tenacity.  "Where is my sister?"

"As I said," Geryon remarked, for the first time allowing aggravation to collide with the confidence of his tone.  "Alive, for the time being.  And most tasty, at that.  I must admit, the extremes to which she was preserved…I had never anticipated the Slayer's sister could be so wholly untouched by any of demon kind.  She was not without her _flaws, _of course_.  _I could smell others on her.  But, for one who faces so much exposure…not to mention those nightly escapades through the cemeteries alone…it is a great wonder she has not tasted as much death as say…oh, you have."

A hard retort coiled her tongue, but it was a voice behind that sounded first.  "Y'old git!" she heard William cry.  "Nibblet's made of more bullets than you'll ever muster!  Little girl can be frightenin', can't she?  Downright scary when she puts her—" 

"Sp…Will!" Buffy snapped.  She didn't know why, but such bantering could not possibly conclude well.  "Please!"

Geryon rumbled in mirth.  "And it always seemed you two got along _so _well."

The Slayer turned her eyes upward once more, growing dark with fury.  Worn muscles surged with rekindled intent.  "Go to hell."

"Well, I suppose, Ms. Summers, that _is _the material intention."

At that, the Slayer's brows perked, cynicism soaring through her aching muscles, feeding her worn nerves.  The implications were not difficult to read.  "Oh, how stunningly original," she spat.  "Sucking the world into Hell.  Is it really Wednesday?  These things just creep up on you unexpectedly.  Hate to tell you, but that threat just loses more of its edge every time I hear it."

If Geryon was intimidated in the slightest, he did nothing to let it show.  Another patronizing chuckle rippled through the air.  "Such confidence," he drawled with counterfeit admiration.  "Look what the façade of invincibility does to one's esteem.  Don't be so closed-minded, Ms. Summers.  I would never presume to do something so undeniably tedious and predictable."

"Well, then you've pretty much failed in that department."  Buffy stretched her arms, testing her restraints with dying futility.  "Do you have any conceivable idea how many apocalypses I've stopped?  If you want a chance to end the world, I'd suggest you just kill me now."

From behind, she heard William growl and attempt to spring forward.  "Buffy!"

The Master clicked his tongue in mock disappointment.  "You're still not listening.  It's better not to underestimate me.  My intention, you see, has nothing to do with the end of the world."

"Or really?" Her wrists pressed against her bindings, and she heard a bolt pop and bounce away.  The telling flicker of the Master's eyes betrayed the same recognition, but he in no way appeared alarmed—rather, encouraged.  "Enchant me."

"Well, look at the proposition logically," Geryon retorted calmly.  "What is the end, after all, but the beginning?  Or the beginning but the end?  If you consider things within the bounds of reasonability, you will find they are quite one in the same.  What you see as an apocalypse, I see as a most promising new start.  There are no delusions of drawing your earthly world into Hell, my dear."

"Oh?" Any cunning retort lodged ineffectually in her throat, her focuses shamelessly directed at her bindings.

"There is the most remarkable difference between sucking the world into Hell and unleashing Hell on earth."

Buffy froze as did her meager escape efforts, and she glanced upward with cautious resolve.  "What?"

Geryon released a coo of pleasure.  "Ah.  There it is.  That first flash of fear.  That shudder of reproach.  Yessss…but, by all means…do not allow me to shatter your misplaced integrity."

The Slayer exhaled slowly.  "What do you mean…Hell on earth?" 

"You really are most naïve," the Master snickered.  "Why would I want to put an end to a world such as this?  So much vulnerability to dwell on.  Feed on.  Destroy humankind?  Ridiculous!  People, you see, have a thousand convenient uses, and I have an eternity to experiment every one of them.  I would never presume to do something so foolish as to cheat myself of such a glorious opportunity.  After all, beginnings are _so _much advanced, and quite underrated.  Yes…I believe this will be…the dawning of a most glorious era."

"I won't let you."  The struggles against her bindings resumed, more pronounced—fevered and encouraged.  "You should know in your old age that cuffing a slayer will do little to stop her."

"As your experience should have indicated not to take any threat for granted."  The Master drew a tight smile.  "You are not without flaws, Ms. Summers.  Nor are you invincible, as you would have your friends who follow you so blindly believe.  No, I'm afraid…you are most ordinary."  At that, he emitted another rumble and emerged fully from the shadows.  Buffy didn't flinch as she beheld his face.  Her line of work had presented more than its fair share of horrible sights.  This was no different.  "A rather plain, unremarkable girl who has little more than luck in her favor.  Oh yes, you're well reputed.  If not for the insidious assistance of those around you, you would have been long gone years ago."

Behind her, William snarled and flexed against his bindings.  "Leave 'er alone, you bloody ponce!  I'll rip your soddin' head off!"  

Geryon's lips curled in an ugly sneer.  "You see what I mean, do you not?  So influential, even my own kind turns his back on his true calling.  You've rendered William the Bloody to nothing more than a personal lap dog, waiting infernally at your beck and call.  But your friends aren't here, are they?  And your precious sister—"

Buffy growled and attempted to lunge forward.

"—being held here.  Right here.  Used to snack on between meals.  Taunted for our amusement when we're bored.  The perfect, however overused ploy to lure you right where I wanted you."  The Master stepped within her reach, commanding her gaze with the same thrall his predecessor had possessed.  A cold sensation washed over her; rage beyond imagination soaring through every artery, fueling her with strength beyond strength.  She would _not _be used in this manner.  Nor would her sister.

The reaction seemed to please Geryon and he cackled again, eyes gleaming maliciously.  "That's it," he encouraged.  "Give in to your anger.  Your fury.  It empowers you.  Charges you with life.  It alone can bring me down."  He took her chin in his aged fingers, jerking her head upward.  William roared pointlessly in effect, but neither was paying attention to him anymore.

Buffy felt she was falling through oblivion.

"Such youth," the Master mused.  "And power.  But you, my sweet, you are still most…average.  Painted with great velocity in bright colors, made to think you're worth something in this great big world.  But you're not.  All these hardships, all your suffering compact in a thousand sacrifices for people who don't even know you exist.  People who would never flinch if they heard your name.  Chosen like all before her to die.  Useless and alone."  Geryon smiled and stood, releasing his hold on her as though repulsed.  "And yet your title alone…the Slayer…is enough to make any decent demon shrivel in fear.  No matter how easy we prove it is, fundamentally, to tear you down."  With that, he smirked and glanced behind her.  "Wouldn't you agree, William?"

"Fuck you, y'old sod."

The Master smiled softly.  "Charming.  Thought you might see things differently, given your history.  What a shame."  With deathly stillness, he again turned to the Slayer and rumbled in mirth.  "Now then.  I bid you, Ms. Summers…rise.  I will not end you while you are squabbling on your knees."  He motioned to something behind.  "Unshackle her.  Arm her."  His sneer turned ugly.  "You shall not accuse me of cowardice, girl.  Rise and fight."

Before she knew what was happening, the binds that secured her wrists behind her clamored noisily to the ground.  Freedom surged her veins with new conviction, and Buffy rose to her feet, taking the proffered staff that materialized to her left.  Her eyes never left her captor's.  

"You've made a very big mistake," she growled.  "You kidnapped your sister, abducted me and my friend, drugged me up, insulted me from every angle—pretty much pissed me off—then freed me and gave me a nice long stake to play with."  She grinned and lifted her staff in emphasis.  "Not smart, pal.  You'll regret not having killed me when you had the opportunity."

"I won't disappoint you."

The Slayer arched a brow and snickered.  "You won't get the chance."   

Geryon's sneer hardened.  "Your over-confidence is your weakness."  His eyes twinkled.  "As is your mislaid faith in your friends.  Let not yourself be overwhelmed with the promise of total success.  Your self-assurance is your enemy, Slayer.  It comes in the guise of ally, but will turn against you in the end, and serve as my agent."

"Then I'd say you have nothing to bitch about," Buffy snapped, ignoring the foray of protests tearing at William's vocals.  "If you have so much going in your direction, then do it.  Come on.  After all, you are the big bad vampire.  The Master.  Do your goddamned worst."

"My worst?" The Master arched his swordsman arm and directed the pointed end at her throat.  "But you, sweet Slayer, deserve much more.  However, as your being in itself lacks poetry, your end should appropriately be void of justice."

The first blow was blunt and without definitive warning.  Short and demonstrative.  Buffy leapt back, eyes narrowed and accusing.  She maneuvered her staff eloquently—a combination of cunning and craft.  Many years had passed since her last sword fight, and though this lacked proper definition, it was close enough to merit.

An incursion of low swings and miniscule deflections—every attack a work of art in itself.  The wood of the colliding spears rang a soundless splinter through dead air, and while noise surrounded her, Buffy heard none of it.  There was only her and her objective.  The menace wielding the opposing staff.  His mocking retorts stung her where she would not flinch, and she forced her thoughts elsewhere.  This was the bastard that had Dawn.  The bastard that had corrupted her dreams and threatened her where she felt safe—as safe as one could feel on the Hellmouth.  Without him, William would never have returned, and her world would not be upside down.  

Even in the middle of her showdown, she could not help but think of other consequences.

Geryon advanced with a series of blows—his movements quick and masterful.  Certain poise held above mortal thought: the influence of centuries of practice assisting every attack.  A jab to his middle blocked easily, supported with a round turn as he kicked her bothersome being to the ground.  The mocking humor he so willfully expressed had vanished from his features, but carried over in every turn of his body.  He was limber—more so than his appearance would lead one to believe.  She didn't remember his predecessor being so lithe, or having as much to say.

So much fuel her with.  She had been scathed.  Time and time again.  That didn't matter to a creature of his reputed callousness.  

The Slayer grunted as she rolled away from the spear's objective.  She bounded again to her feet, forcing Geryon backward with a sortie of elaborate strikes, putting her upper body strength to full power, asserting herself with immeasurable durability.  She saw the opposing staff coming for her, swiping ferociously at her abdomen.  Instinctively, Buffy dropped to the ground and swung her spear for his legs to knock him over.  The Master sprang into the air—seemingly weightless—and pounded to the ground behind her.  She rolled away before he could nail her to the floor.  

A wave of fresh dizziness reeled over her, and Buffy lost her footing.  The Master seized the opportunity and hurdled forward, catching her by the legs and sending her to the ground.  William's cry of warning pierced through the silence and the Slayer's eyes went wide, forcing herself to roll to safety and regroup her resilience.

Geryon growled and circled, the first bits of aggravation bleeding through an impenetrable façade.  They stared each other down for what seemed like hours, neither wavering in fortitude.  The Master again stalked forward, approaching with another series of assaults, all of which she deflected without challenge, moving backward just as slowly.  Buffy twirled and caught his chin with her ankle, twisting to snatch his weapon between her legs, but he pivoted and sent her again to the ground.  She hated being on the defensive—and he was clever enough to anticipate what was coming.   There was no tact or motive.  It was left to pure instinct.

Taking a deep breath, Buffy pressed her spear forward in a diagonal form, hoping futilely to catch him off guard.  Geryon again brought his own to repel, a horizontal line.  He pressed upon her relentlessly, using such force she nearly toppled backward.  A topple she could recover from, a topple was not the end of the world.  However, what happened was hardly a topple, nor as easy to recover from.  The Slayer's heart stopped as she heard her spear crack and snap in two.  In her surprise, both halves fell to the ground, and she stood before him defenseless.

The next few seconds occurred so quickly that she had no account of what had happened until it was over.  Another fresh wave of dizziness commanded her focus, and Buffy tumbled in an unimposing attempt to maintain balance.  Wearily, she wavered, and in her stupor, Geryon seized control.  A quick flash and his arm held her hostage against his chest.  Barely an instant passed before his fangs found her throat.

Buffy was well schooled in the propensity of vampiric bites.  Ten years earlier had given her the first touch.  A brief sensation, as though her taste was displeasing to the Master's sensory.  Two years later to save Angel's life.  A conquest for Dracula—sampled but not drained.  This was a new feeling altogether.  Geryon was not modest in his demands, nor articulate.  The previously manifest appearance of any form of eloquence dissolved, and the monstrous nature of his true form emerged at last.  There was nothing beyond the pain.  From a far distance, she heard William's roars of outrage.  Heard him cry with sorrow, sorry that she could not go to him.  Sorry…sorry…

Then there was another voice.  Nearer.  Buffy forced her eyes open with lasting ounces of strength and saw her sister.  How long Dawn had been in the room, she did not know.  All she understood was she was there now.  Tears were streaking down her cheeks, and her mouth was in full motion, vocalizing strangled cries of protest.

It all seemed so surreal.

At last, the Master withdrew his fangs, taking a prolonged lick of reddened lips, supporting her from falling as he drew his wrist into sight.  A long sliver of blackened blood revealed under a flab of peeled back skin, and he held it to her mouth in offering.  

"Save yourself, Slayer," he murmured.  It was the only thing she heard—her other senses failing her.  Failing…failing… "Drink up like a good girl.  Just a taste, and all your earthly woes will cease to exist."

"BUFFY!"  She forced her eyes widened and saw William again, struggling against his bonds, restrained by the helping hands of mindless subordinates.  "BUFFY!  NO!  Don't do it!"

As if she would.  The Slayer shook her head in cold rejection, turning her head away.  "No…I won't."

"Not even to save your lover?"

She shook her head.

"Your _sister?"_

"No!"  She wasn't sure whose voice that was and decided it didn't matter.  "If I drink, I'd turn into…" Her consciousness battled with an oncoming sense of fatigue.  "I…become…I'd hurt…" With one ounce of lasting resolve, Buffy looked to her sister and smiled.  "I'll never do...anything to…hurt…her…"

"So instead you'll leave her to die here, instead of giving her a running chance?"  Geryon pressed his wrist against her mouth, nodding to the cronies to begin Dawn's release.  "Do it, Slayer.  Drink your troubles away."  

"BUFFY!  DON'T!"  That was her sister, strangled tears muffling her voice.  "I will so stake your ass if you dare touch it!  DON'T BUFFY, PLEASE!"

The Slayer looked up with new conviction coloring her eyes.  Her vision was beginning to fade.  And with lasting penance, her eyes met William's gaze and held.  She knew what she had to do.  Not for him—it was never about him.  Sisterly love went beyond anything material.  Devotion.  

But he would help her.  He always did.

"BUFFY!"  Dawn was sobbing, crashing to her knees as tears poured relentlessly down her cheeks.  "You've already died once for me.  DON'T YOU DARE DO IT AGAIN!"

Buffy gasped and drew her hand to feel the scar forming at her neck.  Her touch encountered dampness, and she saw for herself the blood staining her fingertips.  That was it.  Her eyes fogged and matched with William's.  She saw nothing beyond him.  And as her lips parted, a single utterance spilled forth.  A single word, and nothing more.

"Red."  She said it with such distance that he thought briefly she referred to the color tinting her skin.  But Buffy looked ahead, and he saw the clarity behind her gaze.  Saw and comprehended.  His Slayer to the end.

Their eyes remained locked with mutual understanding—his reflecting a course sense of grieved loss.  Futilely, he shook his head, desperate to reverse her intentions.  The tears streaking down his face had silenced his voice.  There was simply no more left to say.

"Red," she murmured again.  And she was tumbling, tumbling, her lips pressed to the open skin of Geryon's wrist, drawing blackened blood into her mouth.

Distantly, twin voices shouted in opposition, warring and finally tearing away.  A cackle and she fell—dying a third time.  Feeling life evacuate her body, slowly but surely.  A senseless parade from which she would never recover.  Death was once her gift; now it was her purgatory.  Her eternal punishment for numerous wrongdoings, for restless nights she could have spent elsewhere.  For empty pride she wore like a brace.  A crutch.

It was left in the hands of Red.

The last thing she heard as she clamored to the floor was the Master's mocking refrain.  "Goodnight, sweet Slayer.  May flights of angels send thee to thy rest."

Her eyes closed and all went black.


	25. Double, Double, Toil And Trouble

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

A maze through tunnels led from dead end to dead end. They weren't being pursued, he knew, but fighting to the outside was the prime focus, lest Geryon decide it was best to finish them off himself. 

Against his chest rested the lifeless Slayer. No pulse coursed her veins; no life flushed her paling face. She was a dead weight in his arms. Gone, gone now. Robbed of her ever-deserved normality. Doomed if he was not fast enough - if he could not make it out in time.

Dawn was on his heels, tears sticking to her cheeks. She had not stopped crying since that fatal bite. Livid and discolored, muttering furious words under her breath. He wanted to stop and comfort her, but time was against him. They had to get out. For now, all other matters subsided in importance. There was nothing beyond escape.

"Why did he let us go?" she sobbed. It was the first thing she'd said since fleeing the main chamber. "He killed _her. _We shouldn't have been any problem."

"'E wants 'er to do it," William murmured, feeling short of nonexistent breath. He tasted he salt of his own sorrow. "Wants to get all the hurt 'e can manage with one blow. It'd be worse if it came from 'er. You see?"

Dawn sniffed. "I hate her."

"What?"

"She never stops. Ever. She can't...she turned herself into something she hates because she _never stops."_

William frowned. "She did it to save you, Bit."

"Yeah, well, it was stupid." Dawn's sobs showed no signs of relenting. "I would never wish that on her! Let the bastard kill me. For Christ's sake, she should let me make the sacrifice once in a while. It doesn't matter anymore, Spike! The slayer has an expiration date...right...but I'm not even human. Not really. Let me die instead!"

"You don't wanna die, sweets."

"But it's okay if she does?" 

The vampire sighed. "Part of the fun of bein' a slayer...don't really get a say." The words struck his ears and fell unconvincingly. His eyes refused to linger on the being resting deathly still in his arms.

_You really don't know what you've done, do you?_

"Spike?"

"Yeh, pet?"

"Do you know where we are?"

He pursed his lips and frowned. "Got a hunch. Master needed a place no one'd think to look. I'm guessin' with all the debris, we might be in what's left of the Initiative."

"The Initiative?" Dawn echoed. "Didn't the government-" 

William snickered. "Yeh. The government. Real reliable chaps. Can't rightly say, though. Master might've spent years makin' this place homey again." With reluctance, he looked to the precious bundle he was carrying, and a lump immediately formed in his throat. "Oh God," he gasped. "This is all my fault, Bit. I wasn't quick enough. I could have stopped it."

"How?" 

"I dunno. But there's no way this was supposed t'appen." The vampire paused at last, taking Buffy's face into his hand with gentle affection. "There 'ad to 'ave been something I missed. She wasn't due to die, pet. She wasn't supposed to leave me." 

Dawn blinked, drawing her hand across her eyes, wiping away stray tears. "You?" she demanded. "What about us? _Me? _It's all right for _you_ to leave _her_...but when-" 

William's eyes fell again, watering without suggestion. "You're right. O'course. Sorry. She wasn't supposed to die an' leave you, then. Or her precious Scoobies."

"She's done it twice before."

"Not like this," he replied softly, dangerously. "There's no comin' back from this, Bit. Not really. She can't've known what she's done. What she's condemned 'erself to. An ageless sleep. Wanderin' through self-constructed purgatory. Watchin' her friends and loved ones die as she goes on. Denyin' herself sunlight. Oh, my sweet." William's voice grew heavy with more tears, tracing a finger across Buffy's lifeless face. It was obvious he no longer spoke to Dawn. "Even if Red can fix this, even if she does, you'll have changed everythin' forever. Don't you see what you did? Don't you feel it?" 

The young Summers girl began crying once more, turning away and continuing without direction. "We need to get her to Willow, don't we?"

The query drew William from his trance, and immediately, he snapped back to attention. Emotional outbursts faded to responsibility. It was hard trying to be the adult when all he wanted to do was mourn. "Yeah, luv, we do. Before she wakes up. We 'ave until tonight, I think. The sun'll rise 'ere shortly. 'F we don't get outta 'ere before then, you're gonna 'ave to run off. Get out as quick as you can."

"What if-"

"'F we can't manage that, I think I'll be able to hold 'er." That was a lie. A slayer mixed with vampiric strength and a soulless outlook on life was not a being he felt up to facing. Especially one carrying her face. "What she says or does, 'f it comes down to that...you know 's not 'er, right?"

"Right." Dawn knew, of course, but there was still doubt in her voice. "Just like you're not Spike."

Another pause. "Right." 

A cold silence fell over them.

"Would you stake her if you had to?"

William drew in a deep, painful breath, as though the oxygen he needlessly inhaled poisoned his dead lungs. "I'd do everythin' in my power to make that the last resort, Bit. But 'f it came down to it...tha's what she'd want me to do. You know that, right?"

With a heavy sigh, Dawn looked down, eyes welling with more tears. "Yeah," she acknowledged hoarsely. "That's what Buffy would want. Even if we could help her? Make her better?"

"'F she's comin' at you, an' it's you or 'er...the Slayer would kill me then 'erself for hurtin' you." He paused, shaking his head free, as though attempting to cast away accumulating burden. "She did it to save you, pet. Because she loves you so much. Nothin' else could 'ave ever made her drink that blood. Not me, Red, Ripper, Harris, or even bloody Peaches. An' if we don' fix her before she wakes up, it'll be my fault. She's countin' on me, ducks. To get 'er to Red before she turns into something darker than the darkest evil imaginable." 

"And we have until tonight?"

"'F slayer risin's like any other, then yeah."

Hours progressed with little advancement. They didn't trade more conversation, didn't speak lest it was a grumble of hunger or a suggestion of which corridor to take. William was entirely focused on their escape. He could carry Buffy for miles, and often felt that he had, but her weight never bothered him. When it grew almost deathly quiet, he would hear Dawn sobbing softly, expressing her grief for none other to share. This had hit her with more gusto than she could have ever anticipated. Despite numerous indications to blatantly scream the contrary, she never fully grasped what she meant to her sister. What Buffy was willing to sacrifice. There was nothing the Slayer hated more than the thought of turning into the creature she was born to kill, but when Dawn was on the line, the decision was made with no second-guessing. Perhaps in a haste, but the Slayer wouldn't be able to live with herself if she knew she hadn't done everything in her power to ensure her sister's safety.

William understood, though. Buffy's open affection was not easily obtained. After Angel's departure seven years earlier, the persona of doting ardor vacated her humor, rendering her hurt and dry. True, time enough had passed, and true, Buffy's love for his grand-sire was not what it once was, but she had never fully recovered. While her relationship with Dawn was typical inside the realm of sibling rivalry, her love for the girl was so pure that she gave everything to protect her. If her life weren't enough for such reassurance, certainly the willful embrace of an unlife served as all the clarification anyone would require.

He knew when it was afternoon, felt time slipping beyond his grasp with each passing second. And yet they couldn't be far. He had carried her forever and back and would again - however long it took.

_Jus' stay with me, luv,_ he bade her. _After all this, don' leave me now._

When they hit sunlight, it came as an abrupt surprise. Down a dark corridor one minute and hissing in blind shock the next. William leapt instinctively, reflecting his horror when Buffy's skin started to sizzle. The sight was so foreign on her - so new - he nearly forgot to pull her away in the midst of his astonishment. As he panted needlessly in the safety of shadows, ignoring the frenzied cries of Dawn's panic, he was overwhelmed with a fresh sensation of sorrow. "So unnecessary," he choked, barely aware he was speaking. "But I can see why you did it, luv. Because you're you, an' that's the sort of thing you do. Tha's why I love you so much."

Why were things always easier to say when you knew the person you were speaking to couldn't hear a word?

"Spike?" 

William blinked slowly and looked up. "Bit?" 

"We're out."

Indeed they were. He squinted through the endless acres of sunlit ground, protectively drawing Buffy closer in his embrace. The fading duster hugging her shoulders did well to hide what he could not. There was no way he could hope to perform one of his traveling tricks with this precious cargo weighing his responsibility.

"Nibblet," William murmured. "Get yourself outta 'ere...now. Go to Ripper an' Red an' tell 'em what happened. I'll be along when the sun sets. Tell 'em to get everythin' ready."

"No...I'll get Willow to come here. She-"

"You do that an' I'll never forgive you. None of your lot's to come near this place, understand? 'S too dangerous, and the Slayer would agree with me. 'Sides..." He drew in another needless breath. "Red needs to rework the spell. Make sure everythin' honky dory. She had it all revved for me, should I need it. She 'as until tonight to redo it again."

"What if Buffy wakes up before then?"

"I'll deal with it. 'S better that you're away 'f it 'appens...better chances of gettin' 'er back without 'avin' to worry 'bout you."

Dawn bit her lip, trembling. "You'll be all right?"

"'Course, pet. I can hold your sis."

She released a breath and met his eyes skeptically. There was such wisdom behind them, such understanding. A world full of growing up residing in one gaze. The look alone voiced everything he feared. "Slayer plus vamp strength?"

"Don' you worry 'bout me. Go on now. Get outta 'ere."

Honestly, William didn't expect Dawn to listen to a word he said. It was her sister in his arms, her sister that had once again given her life in ode to the continued welfare of another, her sister that would potentially awake darker than any creature the Scoobies had before encountered. With guised astonishment, he watched as she nodded in concession and cleared away, melting into the daylight where she belonged. Slow steps at first - then hurried. Accelerated until she was running hard - running, running, and out of sight.

He sighed and looked again to the unresponsive Buffy in his arms, caressing her cold face with curled knuckles. The heat he so enjoyed from her skin would never be regained. That energy. That spunk. That _life._

"You hold on, now, luv," he whispered, settling against the wall, safely cosseted in the shadows. "I won' let you down."

He hoped he never got the chance.

There had never been a longer day. Under normal circumstances, William would have been intensely satisfied simply resting with the Slayer, feeling her against his chest, combing his fingers through her hair as he mapped out the already memorized contours of her face. He didn't like looking at her now. Didn't like seeing a face of death. It reminded him drearily of Drusilla - not in manner but in implication. Drusilla, Harmony, and every other woman of his kind that he had been with.

He dared not think of what could become of this, of everyone if he didn't get to Red in time. His mind traced the look of anticipated disappointment from Ripper. That notion that screamed _'I knew you'd bugger this up someday.' _Though he knew logically stringing himself to the blame of this awful circumstance was unneeded and would likely be forgiven, a burden rested with him yet. Their last conversation reflected as much. Buffy had spoken out of hurt and concern, but she was right. However helpful his presence was in no way compared to the amount of strain it placed on her. Their continuous game had engaged her focus, even when he tried to break it off. A part of him so desperately wanted to give in to temptation that he hadn't been forceful enough in the insistence that they could never have what either wanted - and that much truly was at his blame. 

And the last thing he said to her? Denouncing her love and refusing to admit his own? That his demon had left it to be his duty? As though loving her was some chore he grudgingly attended to instead of the pure agonized bliss that coursed through his system every time she displayed the barest smidgen of affection? She had seen through it, of course, but that didn't make things right. William wouldn't be able to go on if that was Buffy's last memory of him. Of them together.

Night eventually came, as it always does. The instant the sun began to droop, the vampire scooped his ladylove into his arms and rose steadily to his feet. Expected shivers of lingering daylight shot warning flares down his spine. It was nothing he was not accustomed to. When the last elements of danger melted into an evening sky, he bolted - running harder than he had in his long unlife, wondering why it felt someone had tied an anvil to his foot. Forever and a day passed before he saw the familiar sign announcing his arrival on Revello Drive. William sprinted for the Summers' doorway, leaning Buffy against his shoulder as he retracted an arm to pound against the frame.

The answer was almost instantaneous. Willow stood on the other side of the door, eyes wide as she motioned him inward. Behind her stood the rest of the Scoobies, watching with the same somber, fearful expressions. He didn't venture to look at Giles or Angel - didn't want to consider what he might find behind disapproving eyes. However, the minute he attempted to step inward, an invisible barrier pushed him back.

Surprise overwhelmed him, a loud, "BLOODY HELL!" escaping his unsuspecting lips. His first notion was - naturally - that in response to his failure, the lock had once again been placed on the house. The thought lasted only a second before his motor functions commanded him to catch the Slayer before she tumbled out of his grasp. Time was growing short if so many of the rules were already starting to apply. Gasping, he limped back to the doorway, ignoring the looks of grief-stricken horror that rebounded in response.

"NIBBLET!" 

Dawn fought her way through the crowd, not looking to have advanced from the state she had left him in. Her eyes were swollen from crying, rimmed in red and shot with strained fatigue. It was obvious sleep was a luxury she had lacked for the past couple of days. The look she delivered was one of confusion, steady, and comprehension finally emerged.

"Come in!" she demanded hurriedly, and no sooner did he sprint forward.

A moment of awkward reflection commenced in instinctual consequence. The vampire dropped his head in shame before hazarding a glance in Ripper's direction. He looked worse than William had ever seen him. Disheveled and grief-stricken, rendered to a point where words were ineffectual to convey anything. He gazed sadly at Buffy for a long, helpless minute before meeting his companion's gaze.

"We..." So much fogged emotion behind his tone. He sounded liable to break at any minute. "We tried, Will. We tried so hard to find you. Willow attempted a locater spell that was inconclusive...Angel even called his associates back in Los Angeles. Wesley was on his way as of four hours ago...we haven't been able to reach him since..." 

The Watcher trailed off, steadily stepping forward. Tears welled in his eyes and he ran a fatherly hand over his Slayer's forehead, quivering with emotion. "We weren't fast enough. Or thorough. I could have sworn we tore this town apart trying to find you. It...never occurred to me...the Initiative..."

"Didn't occur to the best of us," William replied unsteadily. Any minute, he expected a foray of accusing cries and glares, but blame placing seemed to be last on anyone's agenda.

Something squirmed in his arms, and his eyes went wide with alarm.

"Red, let's go! Kitchen!" Without waiting, he made a dash in the indicated direction. Another jitter coursed through her body, quivering against his as a moan squeezed through dead lips. William swiped the contents of the kitchen table away and placed her delicately atop the wooden surface. This was it.

"Nibblet," he commanded, not knowing if she was in the room, not paying attention. His eyes were focused solely on Buffy. "Go upstairs." 

A voice of indignation rose from the back. "I-" 

"Do as he says, Dawn," Angel said softly, moving out of Willow's way. No one looked to her as she left - hurt and belittled. There were more important matters.

"I don't know if this is going to work," the Witch said gently, tone sad but business-like. She handed Xander - who had yet to say anything and looked perhaps the worst of everyone - a cross and some holy water. The ever-dreaded 'just-in-case' material. "I mean...I didn't even get to try it out."

Another moan coursed through the air, and Buffy's hand moved.

"'S time to find out, Red," William urged hurriedly. "Get on with it!" 

Everything was in readiness, and eyes were trading glances between the collected visage of Willow and the steadily arising vampire on the table. No one present had ever seen her perform the curse before, and while other magic had indeed been done - in the worst of ways - it was still an area of measurable curiosity. 

William took Buffy's hand and held.

"Giles," the Witch indicated softly. He nodded and released a quivering breath, never having looked so defeated.

_"Quod perditum est, invenietur."_

Willow nodded once more to herself and began. "Not dead...nor not of the living. Spirits of the interregnum, I call. Gods, bind her. Cast her heart from the evil realm." The waves of dizziness projected struck their course as they had during the first incantation. Soon the flash would take her entirely. "Return. I call on..." And here it came. The next beat passed and the Witch was whisked away - down a sphere of powerful magic, magic she had touched before. Potions she had devised and spells she had tried with little success. Magic she had mastered so long ago. Magic she could control. And it consumed her - not in the sense of destruction; instead, she embraced a feeling of normality. It was as though she was coming home. "_Te implor, Doamne, nu ignora aceasta rugaminte. Nici mort, nici al fiintei... Lasa orbita sa fie vasul care-i va transporta, sufletul la elle."_

Buffy's body began to tremble. Initially soft tremors that grew in number and power. Then she was shaking from head to toe, thrashing on the table. Her grip clamped on William's hand, shuddering cries coursing through her form.

Giles looked to Angel with blind panic. "Did this happen to you?!" he demanded.

"No!" The alarm behind his voice had caused him to go up an octave, but no one seemed to notice. "It wasn't there, and then it was. I-"

They were drown out by a booming call from the back of Willow's throat. Her body shook with affect. _"Asa sa fie! Asa sa fie! Acum! Acum!"_

A spark filled the Orb of Thesula, flashed in brilliance, then faded. The Witch relaxed with a breath of much-needed air. Buffy abruptly ceased her outbreak of mini-seizures, her body lurching once more as a gasp clawed its way out of her throat. Then she slumped and relaxed once more, just as lifeless as she had been.

William bit his lip, hand still entwined with hers. No one else seemed willing to move, willing to breathe until they knew she was...and yet there was nothing. The moans had stopped; the twitching had ended. She lay there like a corpse - one never to rise again. Dead in every sense of the word.

At last, Xander spoke. His voice was rough with unshed tears. "Is she...I mean...that didn't...she's all right, isn't she?"

No one dared suggest an answer. William took a step forward, reaching to brush hair out of her face. No movement. He moved to sit beside her, cradling her with his presence. No movement. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her cold skin. No movement. Nothing.

Then she moaned. Once.

And again.

And again. Her hand suddenly stiffened, squeezing his in empty reassurance. A silent breath held over the room as they watched her. There had never been longer seconds. William was sure his heart had started beating again for fear of what he might see when she opened those glorious eyes. Never had a thought brought to him such fear.

_Please,_ he pleaded silently. _Please let me see her when she wakes. Please be there, luv. Please let me have done this one thing right by you._

A flash and Buffy gasped loudly, her eyes flying open.


	26. Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

**Chapter Twenty-Five**   
  


It felt odd to hold breath when you knew such lengths were unnecessary. William released a long huff of air, body relaxing into a state of relieved palpability. There were not words enough to describe how he felt. There weren't languages enough to put any of it in context. She met his eyes and held. Distant at first, blinking as though only awakening from a deep sleep. William stifled a cry and reached to caress her face, eyes welling with tears. It was awful, watching wave after wave of recollection sear into comprehension. Long minutes passed before she emitted a shrill laugh, long and piercing. He didn't think to know why. Didn't want to. All he knew was he was looking at Buffy, and she was looking back. 

Buffy was looking back. 

William felt himself burst into what had to be the most ridiculously happy smile anyone had ever witnessed. "Buffy!" he gasped, coming forward as she sprang off the table, melting into each other's embrace. Unneeded breaths heaved against his neck, as though willing her lungs to revive and work again. She was fighting either to force tears down her cheeks or trap them inside, and succeeding little down either path. How long he held her, he did not know. Only that it seemed forever and a second in the same instance. He could have held her, comforted her, all night. 

"It worked, then?" she gasped, voice muffled. "Sweet Jesus, it had to work. Is she all right? Where's Dawn? Did he hurt Dawn?" 

"No, luv," he replied, barely audible for the sentiment ruling his voice. She held him so tightly he thought he might pass out, even if it was impossible. "You know what you did, right? Oh God, you know what you willed yourself-" 

"I saved her. Tell me I-" 

"Buffy?" The young Summers girl stood to the side, having crept down the stairs in rebellion to verbal instruction. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. Without awaiting confirmation, she looked sharply to William, lip trembling. "That's her, right?" 

"DAWN!" The Slayer tried to sit up, but two strong grips held her down. Angel met the bleached blond's inquiring gaze wordlessly. They understood she needed time to orient herself. 

Buffy, however, did not. 

"What's your problem?" she growled. "Let go of me!" 

"You need a minute, kitten," William explained softly, tone layered with infinite patience. "Don' move too much." 

"Don't tell me-" 

"Buffy!" Dawn broke and ran for her, throwing her arms around her and releasing the long mournful sobs she had pent up inside. "God, why? You should have let him kill me. WHY DIDN'T YOU LET HIM KILL ME?! Look what you've done...look what you've..." 

"For you, sweetheart." Lovingly, she brushed her sister's hair out of her eyes. "If I have to live forever just so you can live until tomorrow, I'll do it. There's no use in crying now. What's done is done." 

Fruitlessly, Dawn shook her head, unable to cease her tears. "No...you've...Spike, tell her what she's done!" 

A flicker ran through the room. William wasn't the only one to notice she demanded reason from him instead of Angel. With a small, sad smile, he ran his hand through the Slayer's hair, touched her cold skin that matched his own, and shivered still in affect. _Girl knows what she's talkin' about,_ he mused despondently, _but pet, I understand. Blood always comes first._ "The Master pulled dirty pool, Sweetness," he murmured. "Threatened Big Sis with what she loves the most if she didn't become what she hates. If there 'adn't been a curse...if we didn't...but I would've done it too, Bit. You're worth it all." 

Xander had finally broken, releasing the tears he fought so valiantly to conceal. "Buff," he said hoarsely. She turned to him blankly, the life drained from her face. William related to his anguish: the sight was enough to drive any man to tears. For a minute, Harris struggled - battling instincts to simply melt in sorrow. Perseverance won, and he managed to keep hold of his grief. His tone feigned a frontage of normality. "How's it going?" 

Buffy smiled, though there was no feeling behind it. "I've been better, Xan." 

William looked to the Watcher and his inward fortitude collapsed. Only a few minutes had passed, but his façade had weakened further still. The windless strains of worry and heartache. Unadulterated sadness swept behind his eyes, suggesting pain beyond pain. To see his Slayer so dead, and yet acting as though she lived. 

Giles had watched Buffy die three times now. It was slowly eating him away. 

"How do you feel?" That was Willow, shy and timid, not know what to say. If there was anything to say. 

At that, his own words came back to haunt him. _Bein' killed made me feel alive for the very first time._

There was nothing to suggest life behind those eyes. 

"Strange," she replied softly, hand reaching for William's once more. He clamped and held; thumb caressing her skin with comfortless support. "Like I'm bursting with energy but drained at the same time." 

A thought crossed his mind - one he hesitated to voice. However, it was of material importance, and the sooner the suggestion was made, the sooner she would become accustomed to the notion. "Buffy," William whispered softly. "Luv, we need to get you fed. Soon." 

A glance from Angel conveyed relief. Obviously, neither had wanted to be the first to make such a proposal, even with the rationality behind it. 

"You mean blood, don't you?" 

"Yeh." It was hard to explain - never, in his experience, had a vampire been born with a soul. Without that original bloodlust. Without the hate that drove the inner demon to do those ghastly things that merited a good staking. To Buffy, dying was simply a matter of rest and wake up. She had done her part. Transitioning herself from the norm into a life of sheltered darkness would not be an effortless expedition. The meaning of her calling was put to rest. "'S really not all that bad, pet. Sounds grizzly, but you get the knack of it. You're made to eat it, now. 'S in your nature." 

"This was never her nature," Angel growled needlessly. "This was forced upon her, not chosen. How _dare_ you call it her nature?" 

Buffy's mouth formed a line and, still holding William's hand, she helped herself off the table and took her first steps as a newborn vampire. Carefully, he watched her face. Watched the liveliness of sensory sweep over her features. The additive feelings that inevitably claimed each freshly risen demon. Enhanced sight and smell, taste and touch. She flexed her hand experimentally, watching the contours of her skin wrinkle and fade, paling already by indisputable nature. He imagined the potency pouring through her muscles. Without requiring a demonstration, he reckoned she was the strongest to rise from the ground. Others sharpened their skills with age. Everything she needed to know was there at her fingertips. She had lived this, and now she died just the same. Her own form of damnation. An eternity spent in the body of a slayer. 

Angel was still reprimanding him, but William had long stopped paying attention. When she again became attuned to the noise around her, Buffy tightened her grip in an unspoken request for support, and flexed herself with a roar until her demon emerged. 

That shut everyone up. 

It was not a sight that Giles, Xander, and Willow had not seen before. Tales of past adventures were related in the empty hours overseas, most fondly. William remembered a particular afternoon he spent enjoying blood-flavored coffee and a cigarette, listening to Ripper narrate tale after tale. Buffy had spent a day locked in a vampire's body, trapped with their features, unable to flex her own back into place. However, that had been ten years ago. People, like memories - even good ones - change with influence. No one had expected to see her like that again. 

"Angel," she said. It was difficult to hear that sweet voice come from such a creature - something shaped with dark beauty and fatal attraction. He shuddered to think how his demon counterpart would react to the sight. "Look at me. What do you see?" 

He didn't reply. His eyes were cast downward. 

"What do you see?" the Slayer demanded once more. 

With loyalty, he obliged and glanced up, pain flooding his gaze. "You," he said softly. "I see Buffy Summers." 

"You see a _vampire_," she clarified. "You've seen enough, made enough, in your existence to know one when you see one. What am I, Angel? Tell me!" 

"You're the Slayer." 

"Obviously not!" A shrill had reached her voice. "If I was before, I sure as hell am not now." Disgusted, she turned to William and her face softened. "Sp-Will. What do you see?" 

Any answer at this point seemed to be a bad one. He had a premonition that directed him to the solution she was searching for, and yet cowardice prevented him from voicing it. Shaking his head, he looked down. No sooner did her hand coax his chin up again, forcing his gaze to hers. 

"What do you see?" Buffy asked again. 

He looked into her eyes, those neon eyes and paused. There he saw power, fire, potential, love and fury. A rage that had finally taken shape. Earthly life stolen from earthly body - the same as it had been stolen from him. A wilting rose, dying in the midst of cold winter. Braving ice-turned winds as the storm grows ever nearer. Integrity and absolution. The acceptance of penance and return for the flame. She wanted it, he saw. Wanted it all. 

William rumbled a growl and allowed his own demon to emerge. 

"I see you," he replied raucously. "My dark beauty, I see you." 

"Then this," she decided, "this must be my nature. If you can still see me under all of it. A part..." Her voice trailed off dejectedly. Words were strong but they meant nothing. That fortitude she relied so desperately on was beginning to slip, no matter how she attempted to mask her diffidence. 

Xander's eyes about popped out of his head. "No. No, Buff. This wasn't supposed to happen. You can't think that." 

"Then why did it?" The peroxide vampire took a step back, features melting once more to human form. It was a tone he knew well - that exasperated end-of-the-rope rant. Reality was slowly showing its ugly face. "If everything that's supposed to happen does...why did this happen to me? Why did I _let_ it happen to me?" 

"You chose," Giles said softly. They were the first words to come from his mouth since doing his part in the restoration incantation. Everyone was drawn to him immediately. "You faced what you've always feared...what you've always dreaded becoming. You knew what hardships you were to challenge. What your decision would entail. Becoming the very essence of everything you were raised to spurn. Born and trained to slay. You went against your calling and embraced the thing you loathe with open arms, because of your sister. You were called to serve and protect, and you did just that. That was your nature, Buffy. Dawn came first for you, like she should." He sighed heavily. "I just wish there had been some alternative. Any alternative. If only I'd been there-" 

"There was nothing you could've done," she said firmly. "Any of you. You would've been killed or used against me, like Dawn and Spike were." Buffy let out a sigh, her face relaxing at last. "I'm so glad you weren't there. The things he said-" 

"Weren't true," William affirmed. "Not one sodding syllable, luv. If you believe nothin' else, believe that. You oughta know by now that these demony types like to mess with your 'ead. It gives 'em kicks." A sigh coursed through his system and he looked down. "I shoulda fought harder. Known more. If I'd looked closer, if I'd read between the bloody lines, I coulda-" 

"There wasn't anything you could've done, Will," Giles murmured. "You worked harder than any one of us. You saw more than anyone here can attest. Lord, I wouldn't have even known about Geryon's coming were it not for you. All the signs, all the research we did..." 

"It wasn't enough, Ripper. Everythin' I did...I jus' wasn't ready for that. An' all the warnings in the world were right there under our noses. _'Made a gibbet of my own lintel.'_" Mournfully, William's eyes met hers again. "Made your own bloody home to be your bloody gallows. An' now what for? What good did-" 

"I could not have gotten through this without you," Buffy said honestly. The straightforwardness in her tone surprised him. Blunt and true - sincere. "Not just because of what...you told us things we wouldn't have known. But I couldn't have. Dawn would be dead, I would be...I don't know. What if he had used that same threat on me and there was no Willow to perform the curse? Huh? Or the curse wasn't here, being researched? I would've done it...let him kill me to save her. Even if I knew he would just go after her in the end...I'd have to let her have the chance to run away." 

She looked down, and he knew she was putting on a courageous frontage. Screams echoed behind her eyes at the world she had lost. The world she would never again touch. He wondered what sort of thoughts crossed her mind. If she realized that that morning had carried the last live sunrise she would ever bear witness to. That simply being in her home as she had it was hazardous. That if she walked into her bedroom, she would be overwhelmed with the wealth of crosses and holy water she stored there. She would finally understand the burn of blessed possessions. Of sunlight and the taste of garlic. How she would feel when she looked in the mirror and saw the wall behind her and nothing more. How she was, at the time, locked out of all of her friend's houses for the unseen barrier that kept creatures such as herself bound to the outside. 

A vampire, true vampire, doesn't care about such things. It's a part of the hunt. As a souled vampire, William was accustomed to abiding the rules. He had spent over a century growing accustomed to the dos and don'ts of the world he occupied. Getting his soul back was an eye-opener, a sweltering mark that burned him to the core. He could not imagine the unlife if he had awoken with a conscience. If he knew he was different in every aspect of his being save the clockwork upstairs. That period of transition was lost. 

"This isn't going to be easy, pet," William whispered softly. 

"Whatever is?" Buffy sighed needlessly. That was a habit that would take a while to break. Breathing when it was no longer essential. Sitting and hearing no heartbeat, feeling no pulse race through veins but knowing, nevertheless, that the blood was there. "But I'll make it. I'll make it." 

He had no doubt. He just wondered if she truly understood at what price her immortality was purchased. 

It seemed rather doubtful. 

*~*~*

Things grew quiet. 

The evening bore long, spreading its wings to cover all hours. It seemed the sky would never gray, but the telltale sign of morning would eventually tickle through the clouds and kiss the earth beneath it. The night guaranteed to be a sleepless one. Too many revelations seared through dead air, unresolved and discomfiting. 

Buffy spent a good part of the evening in her own company, reflecting everything that had occurred. She sat on the back porch, watching the night pass above her like so many others. The light of day was a luxury she would never again indulge. There was no pounding against her chest, no fight to breathe coating her lungs. She knew she could still cry. Could still laugh. Could still give and receive pleasure. Could still _live_ without the living. 

She did not want this to be her prison. 

The dark notion that she would one day become a vampire was one she had abandoned sometime after sending Angel to Hell. It wasn't that she stopped caring or fearing the possibility; rather, she understood if it was meant to happen, there wasn't a thing she could do about it. She could fight until the end and back, refuse to become a part of the sacrifice. A trophy for her sire to gloat about. She saw that whatever inhabited her body would not be her, and that wherever she was; she was not accountable for her doings. 

Buffy saw that through Angel. Death no longer frightened her, but she didn't crave it. And at the same time, Spike told her that every slayer has a death wish, and he was right. Wherever he was now, he was right. 

Wherever he was. Somehow, she couldn't help but feel if Spike were here - _Spike_ and not William - he could put this into some annoyingly simplistic explanation that would both amuse and aggravate her weary nerves. That was one of the qualities she had secretly loved about him: regardless, he told it like it was when such was asked of him. He never painted the truth to spare others feelings. He was there as a constant reminder that no matter how bad things got, they could always get worse. 

Not one night had passed since she learned of his soul that Buffy admitted she truly missed the demon in place of the man. Tonight, looking at the heavens, she uttered her confession, hoping he would not hear. And yet it didn't seem to matter anymore. She knew she loved him, whoever he was, but William had been right to turn her down when she was at her neediest. It was Spike she wanted. That element of danger. That snarky sneer. That dumbfound look on his face when she did anything to suggest affection. That complacently sweet smile he delivered whenever they engaged in actual conversation. The way he held her when she grieved, the way he forgave when she was at her worst, the way he helped when she was at her best. Everything. 

And yet that hadn't been enough for her. Buffy would never have made the sacrifice she did for Dawn for anyone else, and she believed he understood that. Whether or not her sister did was a different matter. 

The back door opened behind her and she heard someone step out. Heightened senses identified the visitor as Giles, and it unnerved her that she could know such intrigues so quickly. It almost felt like cheating. Taking the surprise away from everything. 

All a part of vampirehood. 

With a sigh, he sat beside her and folded his hands, looking wearily at the sky. Neither said a word for long minutes; merely sat there enjoying each other's company, watching nightly clouds roll by without a care. 

When Buffy decided to speak, there was no preamble to her statement. They were far beyond that. "I can't do this forever," she whispered. 

Nothing for a long minute. 

"I know," Giles replied. "I didn't expect you to. I _don't_ expect you to. You've served yourself, Buffy. Yourself and the world. More than once." 

"I get it. But it's not as easy as that, is it? How can I walk away, truly walk away?" She sighed. "There'll always be something. Something that calls me back. Something I feel compelled to fight. Something I'll only trust myself with. Always. And it will never end, Giles. Every day. Forever. Over and over, I'll be sent to deal with the baddies. If I'm not _sent_, I'll go because it's in my blood. My calling. _And I can't do that forever_." 

"Of course not." The Watcher shared her sigh and removed his glasses. They still had not looked at each other. "There are other slayers now, Buffy. More than just Faith. You have died three times, and another will be called. Perhaps sent here once the Council discovers your transformation. I don't know. The point is it's no longer your responsibility. Not if you don't want it to be. It never has to be your responsibility again. You've done everything a slayer can do - you surpassed every expectation I ever had. Every hope." 

The Slayer shook her head, the first tears brimming her eyes. "You must be so disappointed in this," she murmured. "To see what I've become." 

"Oh no. The way...what happened...that was unfair. And the Master knew it. He knew what he was doing to you, and what your answer would be. Buffy, that was not your fault." There was a brief silence. "I would never blame you for what happened." 

"The thing is..." Her voice trailed off as she choked to hold back emotion. "I don't know if I can ever stop. Ever stop being me. No matter what I say...or do...there will always be something that I need to..." 

"I understand-" 

"No, you don't!" Emphatically, she jumped to her feet, drawing an arm across her eyes. "You really, really don't. You had a choice, Giles. You...you _have_ a choice. The fact is you watchers are...if you didn't want to do it, I mean _really_ didn't want to...you had the choice of getting out. _I don't_. I can't get fired. I can't just quit. I can't be let off the hook - ever! Even if there are a thousand slayers populating the planet, I'll feel...I'm trapped. Don't you get that? There will always be something I could do. Something I'm better at than someone else. Something I can stop when no one else can. This is it..." When she looked up, she expected to see cold resolution and instead received nothing but sympathetic understanding. He didn't speak - merely listened. "When I made my decision to save Dawn...when I went against _everything_ I have sacrificed myself to save. When I accepted his proposition, I knew. I knew it was condemning me to an eternity as a slayer. That I was drowning in a well and I'd never get out." 

The Watcher sighed, still polishing his glasses in the hem of his shirt. "Then you did the truly heroic thing, Buffy," he said softly. "You learned complete selflessness. Complete and utter sacrifice of oneself for the welfare of another. Beyond laying down your life for her...you laid down your opportunity of finally gaining silence in the face of a world that has screamed so much at you. You did what your true nature commanded." 

"What?" It was barely a whisper. 

Giles smiled sadly, finally placing his glasses again on the ridge of his nose. "You were human. What you did...it was not as a slayer, it was as a sister. Despite how long you live now...should it be forever or until next week, I do not believe that you will ever come to regret the decision you made. Not where Dawn is concerned. Anyone with any inkling of feeling would have done the same were they in your position. In a heartbeat." 

Buffy held his eyes for their truth, feeling a wave of calm sweep over her tortured soul. A breath vacated her body - still and unnecessary, but likewise strangely needed. With a nod, her gaze lowered to the ground, a shudder coursing through her body. The air contained a bizarre scent; one she had never experienced before but similarly identified without requiring any outside assistance. "Sunrise," she whispered. "It's away, yet, but it's coming." 

"Yes." 

"What happens now?" 

"I don't know." Giles sighed once more and heaved himself to his feet. "This...changes everything. I don't have any suggestion beyond what happens tomorrow. Geryon must be stopped...this, plan of his...whatever it entails. Dawn told me what she could, but...she was in too much a state of shock to..." 

Her gaze remained pointed downward and she nodded. "We can try again tomorrow. Maybe she knows something...I can stop it. Whatever it is. That hellhound's going to pay for doing this to me." 

The Watcher offered a poignant smile. "In that, I have no doubt." 

"And then? After that?" Buffy hazarded an upward glance. "What will you and William do? Just...go back to London?" 

"I don't know. It's all subjective now." A moment's pause. "You want answers I can't give. I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or the next day. Or the next twenty years. You have some issues that merit resolving. In the end, it will be your decision. What you think ought to happen. If you could stay here and watch your friends and family...Dawn...grow old and die without you. If you could resist your calling while still living on the Hellmouth. I cannot decide for you, Buffy. It's up to you, and you alone." 

She pursed her lips and looked away, sniffling as her eyes again threatened to release their spring. "Then I don't know what I'll do. How can I stand here and watch...and it's not just them. It's everyone. Everything here. Spike and Angel saw the world change and thought nothing of it. I can't do that. And I can't lose Dawn. I can't lose you, either. You can't leave me. Not ever. You can go away, sure. Go live in London. Then we're only separated by wires and an ocean. But you're still there if I need you. You can't leave me, Giles. I can't be a grown-up when all I want to do is crawl up and die like a good, normal person should. I can't be...punished to live here forever. I can't!" 

The compassion she saw behind his eyes, the hurt and the suffering she caused him, nearly tore her apart. It was the third time he had watched her die, the third time he mourned her loss. And it was not getting any better. Something told her it never would. 

"If you could go back now," he said softly, "and undo your sentencing...would you?" 

The answer was simple and immediate. They both knew it before the question was voiced, even thought up. There was no denying logicality. "No." 

He smiled. "Then there is nothing left to discuss. Nothing left to grieve. You made your decision. You saved Dawn's life. Things will look better." 

"Do you promise?" 

"I can't, on that." Giles turned to walk back inside, his body heaving in silent screams of heartache and fatigue. With his back turned to her, he paused, turning his head in her direction but not pivoting to face her. "Every time I lose you, I lose a part of myself. Just the same, you are not my daughter, but you feel like one to me. I love you like you were my own, and even wish it at times. What you have been taught...what you have become through your lessons and training...is more than a slayer, Buffy. I watched you grow up." At that, he turned fully, catching her eyes. There was nothing but full sincerity behind that warm blaze of gray. "I watched you transform from girl to woman. I watched your judgment sharpen. I've seen you at your best and at your worst. That being said...it takes a great deal of courage and devotion to give up something you love for someone you love. To embrace something that you...despise with such ardent fervor. I'm proud, Buffy. You did more than give up your life for what you believe in...you gave up your rest." He looked down, backing toward the door in miniscule steps. "And I understand why." 

The Slayer sighed, wrapping her arms around herself. "Good," she whispered. "Maybe one day you can explain it to me. I know I did the right thing, Giles. I know it. But...it's..." 

"Hard, yes." The Watcher nodded. "And it will be for some time." 

Buffy remained outside long after Giles retired. Night encompassed her with a willing embrace, cocooning in a protective sense. She had always been a child of the darkness. Someone told her once that she belonged in the shadows, that she, herself, was a creature of the night. That same person was undoubtedly watching her, concerned but respectful of her privacy. That same person who wasn't the same person at all. 

Her treacherous stomach rumbled, demanding compensation. The craving for fresh blood was something she had never wanted to experience, and while the thought repulsed her, there was no doubt that was what her body begged for. She remembered the coppery taste of Dracula's essence - how she had hated it so. While a new liking was rooted in her nature, there was no getting around the initial repugnance. 

The back door creaked open and silent footsteps slithered up behind her. Her frighteningly sharp vampiric senses alerted her to the scent of warm blood. Before she knew what was happening, William had taken purchase next to her, offering a mug full of rich sustenance. 

"Drink," he said without looking at her, sighing and running a hand through platinum strands. "No use puttin' it off, Slayer. Drink now an' get used to it. Won't 'ave you gettin' all sickly on my watch." 

A streak of irritation coincided with the gratitude that shuddered up her spine. It was reflex alone that persuaded the rim to touch her lips. Reflex seemingly already born into her system. As soon as the blood sweetened her taste buds, Buffy felt a course of firm desire sweep through her, and she hungrily drained the cup clean. Nothing had ever tasted as delicious. The power. The _fire_. New strength attacked every worn nerve, enhancing, prompting her with will she had never considered. Power beyond power. Power beyond anything she had touched before. The quintessence of life itself in such a small package. It wasn't until she caught herself licking the sides that she pulled back in disgust. 

Silence engulfed the space that breath should reside. 

"I can't believe I just did that," she whispered. 

William still hadn't looked to her. "I only stayed to make sure you would," he replied softly, though making no move to excuse himself. "That oughta hold you till mornin'. I think Red said she'd go to the butcher and get us all fed." 

Her eyes glazed over with tears, and resolutely, Buffy set the cup aside. "I don't know if I can do this, Spike." 

"You can. You will. It just takes some gettin' used to." A long beat passed. "It'll be hard, luv. Don' think you've estimated jus' how hard it'll be. Bloody nasty business. I shoulda stopped 'im. Don' know how, but I shoulda stopped 'im." 

"You did all you could," Buffy retorted, eyes focused on her clasped hands. "I know what you would have done, if he had offered. There's not a doubt in my mind. But he didn't offer. This is what I had to do. And now..." Wearily, the tears came again; she was too tired to stop them. With forlorn fatigue, she leaned her head against his shoulder, reassured when he pulled her in for a supportive, however chaste embrace. "I'll need help, Sp...William." 

"I know. I'm 'ere." 

"Yeah, but for how long? You and Giles are-" 

"We're right 'ere, luv. Right now. Tha's all that matters. Don' worry 'bout what's gonna happen when this ruddy mess 's all over. Let's jus' get it over first, all right? Then we'll worry about tomorrow." 

Buffy shook her head. "I feel so lost." 

"We're all lost." Subconsciously, William reached to caress her back. She could tell the motion wasn't planned; it was something second nature, born to him out of instinct. Something Spike would have done. The man left in his place was one to always ask before touching if he could help it. In whatever context, the contact was welcome. Needed. "All of us, luv. Hell, I've never been more lost. An' comin' back 'ere's not helped at all in that department." 

"I'm glad you did," the Slayer replied, hugging her knees as she involuntarily licked her lips, drawing remnants of blood into her mouth. "Had you not...I don't want to think about what might've happened...to Willow, to Dawn...to any of us." 

He shrugged sheepishly, beset by a new feeling of discomfort. "A fella does what he can," he retorted, gaze turning downward. The comforting pressure against her back alleviated once he realized where his hand was, and he drew away as though scorched. "Listen, pet...I don' know what's gonna happen. Everythin' so far's been played by ear. An' now 's all different. But I know why you did it. I woulda done the same for 'er...you know that. In a bloody heartbeat, so to speak." William's body quaked with a sigh, and she hazarded a glance at him. "I never wanted you to know this," he whispered. "Know what 's like to be a creature of darkness. To grasp the feelin'. 'E did, sure. I know 'e did. Nothin' woulda made 'im happier than to 'ave you forever. An' tha's all it'd be to him, luv. 'Avin' you there with 'im as long as..." 

Her eyes fogged over again, a few stray drops of sorrow skating reluctantly down her cheeks. "No," Buffy refuted, shaking her head once more, pulling completely out of his grasp. "You're wrong. I was never some...replacement Drusilla to him. That would've made things easier." 

"You can't know that. I was there, too. I remember everythin' 'e was feelin'." 

"Then you know you're wrong." An uncomfortable silence followed. The air was cold, she knew. A draft had set through the town unwittingly. Odd, as it was so close to summer. Odder to not feel the chill. To not feel the need to search for a sweater. The night seemed to stretch forever. "You were there when he asked for you to be freed." Buffy reached for his chin and forced his eyes to hers. "I've been there. I've seen it. I can't keep having this argument with you, Will. A very real part of you is still him. I know it. Just as a very real part of Angel will always be Angelus. You can't help it; neither of you." For what seemed like forever, their gazes remained locked. Compassionate and pleading. When at last she looked away, the hold broke: shattering anticlimactically. "But that doesn't matter anymore. It took getting killed to understand what you've been saying all along. And now it...everything I was worried about earlier...seems so trite and...stupid. I was so concerned with...I could have stopped this had I paid attention to Dawn. Had I listened to you when you asked me to leave you alone. Had I done any of the things I was supposed to. So really...I have no one to blame but myself. And everything I...it just doesn't mean anything to me anymore." 

"Things'll be better, luv. They-" 

"God! I wish everyone would stop trying to tell me that. Sure. Whatever. Things will get better. All right?" Aggravation burning her deadened veins, Buffy rolled her eyes and jumped to her feet again. "But right now I'm so...lost! Spike, God help me, I'm just lost! I'm dead - again - and now I'm here...I'm something I hate! I hate it all! And I know I wouldn't do any different if I could...how can I be me if I'm the thing I was born to kill? Who the fuck am I anymore?" Tears came on their own accord now. She couldn't stop them if she wanted to. "I'm supposed to protect the world. Not-" 

"No one could carry that weight as long as you 'ave an' not make the choices you did," William growled, clamoring to his feet. "It can't be about the world all the time, luv. You 'ave a family to look after. Kid sis an' all. She's worth a thousand of those no-accounts that run around out there, muckin' up their lives an' others while never botherin' to look the other direction. Dawn's everythin' to you. She's everythin' to me, too." 

"But what now? Huh, Spike? WHAT NOW?" Buffy drew her arm across her face, wiping angry tears away. "I CAN'T DO THIS! Not with you, not without you. I need help and you're running away. I need independence but I can't stand on my own. Giles was right. He was right about everything. Everything he left town for. I never grew up. I tried, and I tried...and I saw the bad things I had done. I stopped hating you and myself. I stopped hating the world for still being here. I stopped doing a lot of things. But I never stopped making it all about me. Even when I knew it wasn't. I can't take care of myself." 

"Bollocks." 

Buffy raised her eyes and glared at him. "Don't." 

"Well, it's the sodding truth, Slayer. An' you know it. Don' go 'bout lookin' for reassurance. You already know what I think." William took a step forward. "An', despite all my attempts to hide it, how I feel. Can't take care of yourself? Pish posh. Tha's a load of bull an' you know it." 

Vehemently, she shook her head, turning away. "No, I don't. I really don't. Everything I thought...everything I ever...it's all gone now. And I'm lost. More so than ever. I need help." 

The words were replaying themselves. Spoken time and time again, but needed just the same. "I'm here." Another step forward. 

"So you said. But again, Spike, for how long? I can't live on absolutes or maybes. I need to know." 

William lowered his gaze reprehensibly. "I'll stay as long as you need me, luv." The words were a shocking reflection of something Angel once told her. Her reply burned vividly in her memory, but remained unvoiced. "But no longer." 

"Why not? Because I _need_ a normal _life_?" Buffy shrugged expressively. "Yeah, as if my chances of that amounted to anything the first thousand times I heard it, it really means nothing now. I can't be alone. And I won't be...I know. I have Xander, Will, and Dawn here. Always here." She shook her head to war off further tears. "But _not_ always. They'll all leave me someday. They'll be gone, and I won't. And Giles...he'll be gone, too. I need help, Spike. I need someone who will be there for me forever." 

At that, the platinum vampire looked up, eyes full of pain and surprise. The first was not his. No, he had stopped aching for himself the night before. What he carried now was her burden. Her hurt. Her inward torment. It pained her to witness. "I will," he whispered, voice barely audible. "I will be 'ere for you to turn to, pet. Always. So'll Peaches. We'll...we'll work somethin' out." 

That was hardly within the realm of encouragement. Buffy felt her insides flood with coldness, her eyes watering again. "Yeah, sure," she whispered. "We always do, don't we? Figure something out? Pardon me if I don't find that the least bit comforting." 

"It's all I can do for now," William replied softly. "'S not much, I know. But 's better than nothing." 

Shudders claimed her again, and she saw the same run through his body. Comprehension and beyond claimed his gaze. Without saying another word, he turned and headed for the porch, grasping her arm to take her with him. "Come on, luv." She complied needlessly, though her heart wasn't in it. "The sun'll be up quicker than you know it. I know you can smell it comin', even if it is a ways off. You should rest." 

"Rest," she repeated. "To face tomorrow? And the next day? And the day after?" 

"What else is there to do? Bein' dead's no excuse not to live." 

Her brows arched poignantly, the first smile of the evening finally tickling her lips. "Are you aware of what you just said?" 

William couldn't help it. He flashed a grin of concede, grip tightening on her arm as he reached with his freehand to shut the door. "Totally serious, pet. I've had time enough to reflect on everythin' nasty tha's happened. What it comes down to is knowin' that, in the end, there's nothin' you can do to make everyone an' yourself happy. You did all you could. There's no goin' back, no sense in waitin' up all...mornin' tryin' to sort things out. I'll help you as much as I can, an' you know it. But firs' you gotta help yourself. The worst isn't over. Not yet." 

Her body trembled with a sigh. "You know just what to say to make a girl all jittery." 

"'S true, an' you know it. What you didn't do before, you 'ave the chance to do now. Everythin'...I'll tell yeh, though...that Master bloke...'e has another thing comin'." When she looked up, a wicked smile had coated William's face. "Brasses off the Slayer an' all her Slayerettes. Not a move I'd fancy makin'. 'Sides, you got new strength to ya. Whatever's comin', we'll stop." 

Buffy's smile melted with suggestion, and she shuffled awkwardly, guiding him to the staircase without a word. There she turned, read deeply into his gaze, and sighed. "I'm not the Slayer, Spike. Not anymore. I told Giles...after what I've been through, it's over. All of it. I can't do it forever." 

There was no surprise behind his eyes. "I don' think any of us expect you to." 

"No. But there's always something." 

"Always. An', for the record, you'll _always_ be the Slayer. No matter if you're actively slayin'...'s a part of who you are. To me, to everyone." William's lips curled movingly, and he cupped her cheek with his hand. "No one else deserves it like you, pet." 

She scoffed. "No. Just-" 

"Don' argue. I'll never stop callin' you Slayer, jus' like you'll never stop callin' me Spike." Buffy's eyes widened in surprise as his face remained perfectly neutral. Calm and understanding. "Not really. Even if you grasp that 'e an' I are not the same, there's enough similarities to make the mistake. Don' think I don' notice it. Now go on. Get to bed. The sun's on 'er merry way as we speak." 

There was nothing for a long minute: just a beat of reverberated surprise. Finally, when she found her voice, the Slayer nodded and started up the stairs, hand still grasping his with vigor. It was like trying to move granite. William's eyes widened at her intent, and he began struggling with desperation. 

"No, luv," he gasped - caught in a grip of fortitude. "Not like this." 

"I don't want anything from you, Will." A note of lasting sincerity lingered in her voice. "Not that it's dangerous...or...whatever this curse dealy entails. I don't want that. I've...I've seen what it can do. I just can't be alone. I'm needy and I'm vulnerable, and I want to be held by the one I love as I go to sleep." Buffy met his gaze, rekindled tears shining through her own. "Please?" 

There was no want of refusal. No shape that could manifest anywhere near his presence. When he nodded, she suspected it came as much of a surprise to him as it did to Angel, who stood near the doorway by the foyer and unwittingly captured the entire exchange.   



	27. How I Long For Yesterday

**Chapter Twenty-Six**   
  


The first cracks of sunlight struggled against closed shades, by nature engaged in the never-ending struggle with strategically placed manmade barriers. When that proved ineffectual, it spread to the downstairs, lining sleeping faces of unexpected houseguests. Giles felt it first; tickling one foot that had snaked free from the tangle of blankets he had wound himself into on the sofa. Having forfeited her bedroom for the sake of charity, Dawn was curled on the floor beside him, wide-awake. The night had presented her no hope of slumber. 

The first indication of sunshine was enough to arouse everyone that remained outside nocturnal origin to battle lingering strains of useless fatigue. One restless night would not be compensated with a lackluster morning. Willow trekked downstairs, stifling a yawn and nodding her greeting to the stirring Watcher as she turned to brew much needed caffeine. A few minutes later brought Xander, returning from the same room, sporting shiny pajamas and unkempt morning hair. 

"Morning all," he said, collapsing tiredly into a rocking chair. 

"Hey, Xan," Dawn greeted unenthusiastically. "How'd you sleep?" 

"Sleep? Oh...you mean that thing I didn't do last night?" He offered a worn smile that lacked feeling and sank into the cushions of the rocker. "You'd think with all Willow and I have been through together that sharing a bed wouldn't be such a big deal." 

The Witch grinned, entering the room with two cups of coffee. She handed the first to Giles and ignored Xander's inquiring expression that silently requested a share. "He's just cranky because I made him sleep on the floor," she explained, taking her seat alongside the Watcher. "Anya never told me he was a kicker." 

"That's because I'm not!" Harris looked to Dawn for empathy, but received only an amused smile. "She just made that up so she wouldn't have to share the covers!" 

A mild outburst of laughter surged unnervingly through the air, mingled, and died within seconds. Things grew uncomfortable again. 

"It feels bad...making jokes," Willow said after a minute. "I feel like we should all be...mourning or something." 

"Don't." Giles sighed into his coffee, unable to raise his eyes. "Buffy is fine. She's...she's with us, and it was by her decision. I can't say I approve, or that I believe she...but there's no use in mourning over it. It or...or anything." After a prolonged breath, he looked to the Witch, face expressionless. "I couldn't hear a thing last night. Do you know if they slept all right?" There was no hesitance in voicing the undoubted 'they' in that equation. Even Xander failed to shuffle uncomfortably. Whatever Buffy and William were to each other now was a matter of her personal business, despite rationality and objections. 

"I didn't hear much. They went to sleep really late, but I guess that's expected." Willow pursed her lips in thought. "I'll admit to having checked in on them before I came down. Just to make sure...you know. Everything looked all right. Sleeping like the dead." At that, the Witch's eyes widened into saucers, and she clamped her hand over her mouth in astonishment. "Oh God. Really didn't mean that. All...they weren't...ummm...they hadn't..." Her face reddened. "What I mean-" 

Dawn cracked a smile in spite of herself. "I think we all get your meaning." 

"Besides, she wouldn't," Xander said. "Not with knowing what happened the last time...I mean, when that curse was tested." 

"We don't need any reminders," Giles softly confirmed, eyes growing distant. "Well, I'm glad at least those two could find rest after yesterday's emotional revelations. I need to speak with Will sometime today. We have some decisions to make, pertaining to his future." 

Willow's face brightened. "Are you gonna make him stay?" 

"And you'd be happy about this why?" Xander retorted. 

"Because, brainiac, if he leaves, we got a mopey Buffy on our hands. A mopey Buffy who's just made the largest sacrifice of her life." She rolled her eyes at his lack of insight and indulged in a long sip of coffee. "Besides, Spike's my friend, too. I know that's...weird. It's weird enough for me to deal with. The truth of the matter is, he's not Spike. Not like we knew him. Not anymore. He's this really great guy who's had it really rough and is trying to get by with things he's done that haven't been his fault. And crazy as it sounds, I want him around." 

"So do I," Giles said softly. "Believe me, returning to London without my cohort was the least of my concerns upon arriving. You all have been wonderful sports about this. This...transformation. But honestly, you don't know him - Will - like I do. If things hadn't taken the road they did last night, there isn't a doubt in my mind to suggest he wouldn't get back on the plane with me to go home. Buffy changed that. Not intentionally, but she did. I think...it would be selfish of me to force him back when it is clearly here he is needed the most." 

Willow smiled tightly to herself, struck by a whim of irony. "I never thought that one day we'd be sitting in the family room debating over where Spike was needed. Really needed. Besides an ash tray." 

"Still objectionable," Xander quipped, quickly assaulted with affronting glares that he compensated for with a smile. "But all this is beside the point. How is Buffy doing? I didn't really get a chance to talk with her last night. She was so..." 

The Watcher nodded understandingly. "I know. She's...terribly misplaced. There's no sense in denying it. Anyone would be, after what she was put through. I spoke with her a little last night, and from what I gather, she's most concerned with her future. Hers and yours alike." He sighed. "I truthfully don't know what to think. Every slayer has...well, Buffy has twice denied plausibility. There is no furthering her death sentence. To..." 

"The next step is something we won't see," Harris said firmly. "No. Not after this." 

"I agree. Another slayer was called upon her death. There will be four now. Faith, Buffy, and the two following. I just wish...there will be no sanctuary for her. You understand that, right? Everything she had before Willow..." Giles caught himself and swallowed, gaze darting away from her line of vision. "Before she was denied eternal rest. That only comes with another death. A final death." 

"No one considered that," Dawn murmured. 

"There wasn't enough time for consideration." The Watcher sighed and removed his glasses, free hand subconsciously patting the girl's head in unfilled reassurance. "You know your sister. If you're in anyway implicated, her choices come at a separate expense." 

Xander bit his lip and leaned back. "She's changed everything forever. She knows that, right?" 

"Of course." The Witch took a deep breath, shaking her head free. "What Giles is saying is, despite what she says or tries to do, Buffy can't _not_ save the world. She can't just up and give up her calling. You've seen it - she trusts the world with no one but herself, even if she does resent it. It's a paradox. And now she's trapped. Possibly forever." 

"It's senseless worrying about the future when we're unsure what is going to happen tomorrow," Giles said, shaking his head free, as though trying to convince himself. "Willow...you should probably head to the butcher shop. I don't know when to expect them up...William never slept terribly late into the day." 

Xander grinned somberly. "And you know that how...?" 

More irritated glares. The Watcher rolled his eyes and stood. "Because every time I arrived at the library, he was up. His flat was just above the..." He stopped and frowned. "Why am I explaining this to you? Why don't you go with Willow to the butcher? She might need help bringing back such a large order." 

"Large order?" Dawn's eyes widened. "How much are we getting?" 

"Enough to feed three vampires for the rest of the day." Giles removed his glasses and consigned them to the hem of his shirt. "In the meantime...Dawn, I know we have already discussed this at length...but I need you to go through all the details once more...what the Master told you before..." 

At that, the young girl balked, hands going up in ode to her annoyance. "God! Will you just...give me a break? We went over this, and _over this_, and over this yesterday. I didn't hear much of anything, okay? He told me, but I wasn't paying attention. I thought I was dead! I thought-" 

"Ummm...we're gonna...go..." Willow and Xander were already out the door before either could register their departure. It was expected - redundant, in a fashion. The first sign of trouble and all who were not implicated seized the easiest out. 

In this instance, neither seemed to notice. Dawn's eyes were dark, swollen and hurt from a lifetime's worth of crying spilt in the matter of a day. A thick silence settled between them; the sort that screamed without saying a word. There was no need for words. Not at first. As great as the tension soared, it was nothing in comparison to the shared sense of empathy. 

When she did speak again, her eyes were glued to the floor, broken from a penetrating, however understanding gaze. "He was going to kill me, Giles. Don't you get it? I mean...sure...naïve Dawn. Boohoo. Things like that don't occur to you when you're being used as a vampire's chew toy. I should've thought...should've listened...should've realized it wasn't me they were after. But hey - everyone makes mistakes. All I knew was that he was...he said I was going to die, and that Buffy wouldn't be there to rescue me." 

"And all the times that you've been told that, you picked _then_ to believe it?" Giles retorted incredulously. When she looked away in aggravated shame, he sighed again and sat down. "It doesn't get any easier, I understand. But you should know...you should always know...never give up hope unless it is for absolute certain that help is not on the way. Buffy would never let you go without making sure her face was the last thing you saw. What happened...what she did for you should be evidence enough." 

The girl's eyes welled with tears, muffled sobs contorting her voice as the first quivers consumed her. A new morning's sorrow. "I know..." she gasped. "God, I know. But I don't _get_ it. She needs...she can't do this forever. She can't keep jumping in and saving me. Someday...she's just gonna...gonna have to..." 

"Let you go?" 

"Yes! I know she loves me. I know I'm her only family. I mean, Dad is so unaware." Angrily, she drew her arm across her face and wiped stray tears away. "She's died what...three times now? He's never been in on that. Never known what she's gone through. What I've gone through. He didn't care enough to try to take care of us when Mom died. If he did, it wouldn't be because he wanted to. We're it. Buffy and me. We're all each other has. _And I can't lose her again!_ Not after what she put me through." 

Giles sighed again, looking down. "I wouldn't worry about that now, Dawn," he replied softly. "After we deal with the Master...Buffy is finished. With slaying, with it all. She ought to have her peace." 

"But you said...you and Willow..." The girl shook her head in disagreement. "And you were right. She can't stop, ever. Even if she wants to. I _know_ she wants to. But that doesn't mean there are any less people out there that need help. Buffy just can't stand aside and watch the world about to end without doing something to stop it. You know that." 

"Of course I know that. She does as well." He stood and paced steadily to the opposite corner of the room, hands finding purchase at his hips. There was a beat of silent consideration. "As long as she's on the Hellmouth, she'll never stop being the Slayer. There will always be an apocalypse to stop. A new evil to defeat. Something to hold her to her calling. She doesn't deserve that, Dawn. She shouldn't endure an eternity of this godawful violence after what she has been through." 

"Then what? Are you going to take her away from here? Is that it?" Her face darkened a shade with intense ferocity. "Don't even _think_ about that, Giles. Don't...you can't do that to me!" 

The Watcher grumbled in frustration. "I said nothing of the sort. I would never hazard to make decisions for her. But you cannot be selfish in these matters. Don't you see how hard it would be for her to stay here? To watch her friends and you grow old and die without her? Then again, it would kill her spirit to be away from her family. I have no solution. She can't stay and she can't leave. But none of this makes any difference unless we stop Geryon before he has the chance to fulfill his threat. You _must_ go over everything again. Just once more. I need to know what to research." 

At that, Dawn looked down, her nerves calming. Her body was shaking, heaving deep breaths and wracked with sleepless tension. "All right," she complied quietly. "But just one more time, okay?" She waited until Giles nodded in understanding before continuing. "The Master...he came in...started talking about a gate. At first I was wigged, you know. Thought he would try to use me, being all Key-y and such. He...laughed at me. I didn't say a word and he knew what I was thinking. I hate that. He called it the Gate of...something that starts with 'A'. I _swear_ that's all I know. Nothing about how to close it, how it opens, or what it does. But I'm guessing it has a definite part in this entire 'hell on earth' thing." 

"Yes." The Watcher was no longer there. Every contour of his face was driven with worry. For long moments, they sat in silence. There was nothing left to say. No further interrogation to conduct. A minor lead that inevitably initiated a night surrounded by books. 

Dawn sighed at last and stood. "Look...I didn't sleep much last night. Since Willow's not using her bed, I'm going to borrow it for a while, 'kay?" 

Giles immediately zoned to the present, blinked at her unthinkingly, and nodded. "Erm...yes, of course. I don't believe any of us acquired much rest. Go do that. I need to be up to help them when they get back from the butcher." 

"Yeah." She turned and made the slow, steady retreat. When she stood at the foot of the staircase, she saw the Watcher had made no effort to move. He was staring at the same spot on the wall, face blank and emotionless. Lost in a labyrinth of deep thought and a pounding clock that ticked each second with cruel diction. The sight troubled her. It wasn't often she saw Giles so unprepared - without theory or suggestion. And while her faith in his abilities never wavered, the slightest lapse rocked the wobbly legs she depended on. Dawn bit her lip and cast her gaze downward, clearing her throat. "It'll be all right, won't it?" she asked. "In the end...it'll all be all right...right?" 

He looked up and met her nervous eyes. His own were not much for reassurance. It was a bit late to make speculation on how _all right_ everything in its nature was. And the Watcher would not lie to her. No matter how ugly the truth was, he would never keep it from reaching her ears. 

What he did say was perhaps the worst. "I wish I could say." 

Dawn hadn't felt a shudder that dark in a long time. 

*~*~*

The first thing she was aware of was the degree of silence that spread across the room like wildfire. It singularly was unlike anything she had heard before. A still nothingness. No breaths mingled in the air, no telltale rise and fall of the man whose chest so protectively cradled her in an emptily warm embrace. Instinctually, Buffy drew in a deep gulp of air, reveling in the uselessness that soared with it. She thought of all those times she had splurged on ice cream or other fattening goodies, only to berate herself later for putting something into her body that she wanted but would never need. The suggestion that oxygen had reached that pivotal plane was not a happy one. And yet working her lungs required more effort, and for that, she was too drained. 

When she finally opened her eyes, Buffy saw they had fallen asleep in the same position he held her in the night before. William's body cupped hers, the feel of his skin comforting her. She adorned his black tee, his arm draped over her shoulder, and their hands were laced together. What few breaths he subconsciously took tickled her neck, filling the air with much-needed sound before everything once more fell flat and dead. 

_Dead_. 

That's what she was now. Dead. Again, but not so. Deader than dead. The undead. The living dead. 

_Silence_. Silence meant death, when boiled down to a simple conclusion. 

Buffy squeezed William's hand tightly and earned one in minor response. Her companion murmured lazily in his sleep, nuzzled her hair, and stilled once more. Pursing her lips, she settled again, eyes fluttering shut. How she wished to just will the world away. Fall asleep and let this day along with all the rest melt into one magnanimous frame of consistency. The thought of facing the downstairs household was not a pleasant one. There was work to do, prophecies to investigate, a world to save. Again. 

That resurrected the promise she made to herself the night before returned with all its aching glory. An empty one at that, but a vow she would lose herself repeatedly to upkeep. This could not continue for an eternity. She would not let it. 

Taking a deep breath of comfortless air, Buffy conceded that further rest was improbable. Her mind was much too full to let her lose herself in slumber again. Reluctantly, she untangled herself from William's arms and edged out of bed. The room looked foreign to recently reborn eyes: filled with things that denoted herself as the Slayer. Half these artifacts she could no longer touch. The crosses in her chest. The vials filled with holy water. The necklace Angel gave her a lifetime ago. Forget the note of fairness in this cursed damnation; the logistics alone would prevent her from fulfilling her calling. How was she supposed to fight the forces of darkness when touching anything more than a stake affected her more than the demons roaming the earth? 

She knew the air was cold, but she couldn't feel it. 

Buffy's eyes watered and she looked down. Whatever she had been fighting for, wasting away for all these years seemed lost. A whirlpool of never-ending mockery. She fought to heave a sigh through tired lungs, wiping frustrated tears away with a sniff. If anything, there was no sense crying over it now. There was an eternity to spend roaming this earth - unless she found herself at the end of one of her own sharply pointed stakes - and such consistent boohooing about her lot in life would do little good. After spending so many years specializing in self-pity, however hidden she kept it, the Slayer would have to force herself to maintain the adulthood the weight of her decision carried. 

When she looked up, her eyes caught the mirror and the contemptuous nothingness it threw back at her. That was all it took. Chosen or not, this was not how it was supposed to be. Buffy trembled and her inward fortitude collapsed. She didn't realize she was sobbing until she paused where she would normally gasp for a timely breath. There was nothing. No reflection of swollen eyes, of the tears skating hotly down her otherwise cold cheeks, no picture to accompany her sorrow. 

A sudden tightness around her middle took her by surprise, but only for a minute. William hadn't made any move as he sat up, said nothing as he cradled her against him, softly, wistfully caressing her neck with feather-light brushes of his lips. She choked out a sigh, reaching to rub the arm that held her. The mirror echoed nothing, of course. Nothing of the tenderness he exhibited, the love he showed with every infinitesimal indication of her returned affection. He was accustomed to that, but she wondered if it was something he ever missed with uniformity. 

He was still coating her neck with kisses, comforting and somehow chaste, in his own respect. "It takes some gettin' used to, pet," he murmured as he nuzzled her. "Lookin' without seein' a bloody thing. I know. Lots takes gettin' used to." 

Buffy exhaled once and nodded. "And you're here to help, I know. We don't have to go through this again. It'll...just take some time." 

She felt his smile against her throat, and he held her resolutely in a firm, reassuring squeeze. "Tha's right." 

For a moment she went rigid, and delightful as it was, William's warm affection served as only a minimal comfort. The feeling that resided in the pit of her stomach had made itself at home. The sensation of complete and utter loss of oneself, and try as she might, it wasn't something she could release with any measure of ease. 

However, with such a sheath of strength behind her, Buffy sighed heavily, closed her eyes, and finally allowed herself to relax. "I'm so glad you're here," she whispered, encouraging his fervent attentions to resume. "The...the thought of what could have happened...had one thing gone differently...I-" 

"Shhh..." William urged, lips against her skin. "We'll never 'ave to know, pet." When he sighed in turn, his breath fanned her ear with such simplistic normality that it nearly provoked her to tears. A rush of aggravated shame coursed through her body. It would not do to overreact in such a pubescent manner to every reminder of what mortality felt like. If he noticed, he had enough civility not to voice her pain. "An' even then...I wasn't fast enough. I-" 

"Don't," she gasped, eyes flying open. "It wasn't your fault. None of it was." 

He smiled expressively. "If you say so, luv." 

"I do." A beat of encompassing silence passed between them. "What time is it?" 

William paused and lifted his head, and Buffy seized the opportunity to recline comfortably against his shoulder. His eyes wandered to the window where beats of sunshine still struggled against the safety of closed blinds. The intensity of heavenly rays weren't as potent as they were in mid-afternoon. "'Bout 'alf hour till sunset, I'd wager." 

"They'll be wondering about me." 

"Well, yeah." Reluctantly, he pulled away, hand instinctively running through ruffled platinum strands. "After what you went through? Luv, they'll be wonderin' about you till they're long gone. You've got to know what you mean to the Scoobies. An' now you've made this walloping sacrifice." 

Buffy nodded dismally and moved passed him, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "I know. It's-" 

"Going to be hard." William turned to face her with a gentle smile. "We've covered this, pet. Won' become any more or less true the more you say it." His shoulders rolled with captured tension. "I'll bet you're hungry. Feelin' a bit peckish myself. Let's go downstairs. I'm sure Willow's hit the butcher's by now." 

She made a face. "Oh joy. More blood." 

"'Ey there." A mischievous grin crossed his lips. "Might be right degradin', but I saw you chow down last night. You love it an' you know it." 

"And knowing this is supposed to lower the disgust factor...how?" 

"Jus' think of it as that sodding diet soda you chug, only with flavor." 

Buffy smirked at him, reaching for her jeans. She understood that venturing into the world below adorned in his t-shirt probably wasn't the best impression to make after a night like the one she had had before, but at this point, it didn't seem to matter. Not anymore. Perhaps never again. "You're a riot," she jested, throwing the duster over her shoulders. "All right then...let's get this over with." 

It wasn't until she reached the door that she realized William wasn't behind her. Instead, he sat calmly on the bed where she left him, regarding her with a sweet, almost impish smile. A frown flashed across her face, then she understood. "Ummm...I have a shirt or two you can borrow, I guess. They might be a little tight-fitting, but..." That only seemed to heighten his amusement. What he found so entertaining she didn't know, but it was strangely appreciated. Buffy sighed and conceded, shrugging the duster off and tossing it in his direction. "All right. Fine. But no ideas...that's my damn coat now." 

She expected the display to heighten his spirits, but instead it worked the reverse. The frisky expression tainting his features fell immediately, as though just informed a favored pet had died. He made no attempt to catch her offering; rather watched it consign itself on the floor. An unexpected shudder coursed through his body, and at last, he stood. 

"Take it," William murmured, kicking the duster wearily in her direction. "I can't wear that. Jus' another bloody trophy of mine, right? 'Sides, I told you once...'s a slayer's coat, an' tha's where it belongs. On you." 

Buffy pursed her lips. Not a sound reverberated through the room. Not an inkling of life, or the previously uplifted morale she could have lost herself in had the road had been pursued. But no. There was always a reminder of reality. Of what they had to challenge on the other side of that door, whether it come in the form of a knowing look or a familiar article of clothing. There was always _something_. 

With a weary nod, she leaned forward and took the duster in her arms. William wordlessly navigated to her closet and explored all possibilities. The thought never occurred to her to simply return his shirt to him, just as he never asked for it. He settled with a flannel top she had borrowed from Xander a lifetime ago and never given back. 

The sun was down by the time they stepped out to face the world, each accommodated in their own awkward respects. At the top of the stairs, Buffy turned to him abruptly, seizing him in a spontaneous embrace. Her will demanded nothing of him but to be held and reassured. No words were exchanged. There was no need. Simply the comfort of being held and cared for, in view of the world of ache they lived in, was more sentiment than any idiom could convey.   
  



	28. Old Times

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

   
          It truly was beginning to feel like old times. The sad dismal face of deeper realization had struck its usual nerve. An instinctively uncomfortable regrouping commenced on the lower floors, achieving little more than further displacement and fatigue. The atmosphere was confined and strangely quiet. No one knew what to say or how. And in the midst of this, there was research. Long live Giles-The Research King. Never a break. Never a want of rest. There was no time for ideality. 

As the night wore on, everyone consigned themselves to different parts of the house. The Watcher, the peroxide vampire, and Willow occupied the living area, each buried in a separate book. Xander and Dawn were making supper that no one would eat. Angel sat on the back porch, immersed in his own studies. No words had been exchanged in the course of several hours. There was simply nothing to say. 

All felt like a bad dream. Nothing to do but read and wait. Search and hunt. Find and destroy. 

Willow glanced up from her studies, eyes heavy with lack of sleep or substantial caffeinated support. "Anything?" she asked Giles, boldly breaking the silence. 

A heavy sigh heaved through the room. "Nothing," he reported grimly. "There are several gates mentioned that will open portals to hell dimensions. But no specifics. With what we're going on...Dawn wasn't able to tell us much, other than give us a lead that eliminated twenty-five letters of the alphabet." 

"Well, that's helpful, right?" the Witch asked fearfully. "I mean...yay...less research. Gives us at least a little hope to stop this thing..." 

"It helps, yes," he conceded, removing his glasses in an orderly, very Giles-like manner. "And no. The way things turned last night...it's difficult to speculate-" 

She nodded. "Very. To know anything anymore. I just don't-" 

"None of us do." Giles looked up finally and glanced in the general direction of the back porch, eyes glazed as though he could see through the walls that barricaded his view. "Where is she?" 

"Where else? Patrolling." Willow shook her head. "I think she wanted to be somewhere normal. She was talking with Angel and..." The other member of that statement was in the room, still reading and pretending not to hear a word of the passing conversation. The two shared a look of courteous acknowledgement. "She left just a few minutes ago." 

The Watcher's eyes widened. "Did Angel go with her?" 

It was William who answered, head peaking from its hiding place amidst a number of dusty pages. "'E offered. We both did. Jus' a while back. She wanted to be alone." 

"And you let her go?" Giles demanded in alarm. "After everything that has happened? Wasn't it you who suggested-" 

"'Ey there. 'S not like I din't try, you bloody pillock." The vampire shot him a somewhat affronted look, but there was no burden of accusation weighing behind it. Nerves were clinging by the last strand of decency, and snapping at comrades seemed the only way to vent stress. Unless one, of course, was a recently turned Slayer who got her kicks by fighting the forces of darkness. "Couldn't talk 'er out of it. Believe me...I don' want 'er out there by 'erself. But you know Buffy..." 

That was most certain. Once she put her mind to something, the Slayer never backed down until her objective was complete. 

"But I figure," he continued, "any vamp that tries to cross 'er now is in for one massive walloping. 'S important to 'er. Couldn't..." 

Willow held up a hand to signify mutual, however unspoken understanding. "Right. Probably for the best," she said. "Did she eat anything?" 

"Every last drop, an' even some of mine." An ironic smile flickered humorlessly across his features. "She was hungry-no doubt about it. We talked a bit with Peaches, then she jus' up an' left. When I offered to go with 'er, she flatly turned me down. I know the Slayer...'f I 'ad followed, I'd've ended up mightily sore tomorrow." 

The comment slipped by with understanding until Xander entered the room, blinked, and double-tracked out. "I really shouldn't come in during the middle of a conversation." 

Not one pair of eyes was spared a good rolling. Then things grew quiet once more. 

"Is Angel still outside?" Giles asked. 

"Yeh," William replied, also glancing in the aforementioned direction. "'E 'asn't said much as of the late." He paused again as though considering, hesitated, then climbed to his feet. "Think I'll go for a smoke break." 

Willow glanced upward from her reading and quirked a brow. "Peace offering?" 

"Figure might as well, now that she's gone an' we can figure this sodding thing out," the vampire retorted with a shrug. "Get all our bloody differences behind us now. I got a knackering that the three o'us'll get real chummy sooner or later, whether or not we really want to." 

That was logical enough. William waited a minute to complete the final paragraph of the page he was reading and flipped the book shut. It wasn't until he made the motion for the door that the Watcher realized the implied conversation with the grand-sire was due to be held right away, and spoke up abruptly. "Wait a minute. We have a matter of some urgency to discuss. Before you and Angel decide anything..." With that, he arched a pointed look to Willow that issued a wordless order to vacate the room. 

A hushed silence overtook them for a few uncomfortable seconds once they were alone. 

William frowned and conceded a step inward. "Wha' is it?" 

Giles cleared his throat. "I know this isn't a topic you look forward to discussing," he acknowledged drearily. "But it merits attention. Given the course of everything that has occurred these past few evenings..." His gaze was trained on clasped hands. "Our objective has changed, Will. I need to know...where you plan to go from here." 

The vampire's eyes narrowed. "Whaddya mean?" 

"You know perfectly well what I mean. You said it yourself." Giles sighed and rose to his feet. "You have the opportunity to...to have everything you ever wanted, even if your conscience would not allow it. Right now, the ball is in your court. What you have forbidden yourself to consider must now be taken into committee." The Watcher's shoulders heaved with tension, and William felt his already-cold body going numb. He knew what would be said next and silently implored it not so. And yet the words continued, unable, unwilling to stop. "You must decide where it is that you are needed most. Whether or not you will return with me to London as we originally planned...or stay here...with her. To help her through this. Through...whatever it is that she's going through. It's not something of which I can be of any assistance. Despite my knowledge and my studies of the vampiric society, no one is as ample a teacher as one who has been there. I must conclude that, in my belief, it is here you are needed." He hazarded a look at the vampire's face and frowned. "I know you might not agree...but it's...it's what is in her best interest. And as her former Watcher, looking after the girl as though she were my daughter...I have to...consider everything and disregard the respective disposition of others. In the end, though, it will of course be your decision. I just believe here is where it should reside. Here or wherever she is. Wherever you're needed the most." 

There was nothing for a long minute, then a pained look flooded William's eyes, and he expelled a small sound of agony. With a furious rumble, he automatically initiated himself into an empowered pace, taking strides that quaked the house with magnanimous force. "Oh no," he said shortly. "Not you, too. Everyone else 'ere an' I can say no, fer all the right reasons. But not if you join the bandwagon. I can't stay, an' you know it. No matter 'ow I wan' to. 'S badness, Ripper. All of it. One way or another. I-" 

"What's keeping you, then?" Giles retorted. "Nothing but petty fears and selfishness. You want to stay here, you're needed here...and everything considered..." A long sigh rolled from his throat. "Listen, I don't like the prospect of losing you as a work colleague, but I have to think about what's best for her. Right now, you are it. You've kept her grounded throughout this ghastly ordeal. You're the only one she lets inside anymore. And after this all passes, if we're miraculously able to stop whatever gate the Master intends on opening, she will need you. For guidance, for support...someone to help her as the people she loves grow old and move on. She needs someone who will always be here. I can't give her that. No one else can. Only you, Will. You're it." 

Intensity had dropped by degrees in Spike's tenor. A somber look overwhelmed the denial so previously manifest, and his lower lip quivered. "What about Peaches? 'E's 'ere all the time. A drive away an' all. An' I'm willin' to bet he'd be ecstatic to-" 

"Two reasons," the Watcher interjected sharply. "We don't want an ecstatic Angel on our hands. That leads down the path of..." 

"Wackiness?" 

"In a nutshell." Giles shook his head. "Secondly, she doesn't want Angel. Do you have any comprehension on how pivotal that is? Her first love and it's no longer good enough for her. If things were different...if he still held her affection, he could have her now if he wanted. The reasons of his leaving were dismissed enough when she made the decision to sacrifice herself. It's not him anymore. You're the one she loves, Will. You've seen enough to know that by now. And despite what you may say, a sense greater than duty is the drug that lures you here. The idea of leaving at all aches you away day by day. Don't think I can't see it. I know you well enough. You are at home here. This is where you belong." 

"Maybe," the vampire replied, voice hoarse. "Apart of this bloody town'll always be with me. I know it. God, how I know it. But London's where I belong, Ripper. In that soddin' library, workin' alongside the likes of you an' all those other wankers. When all 's said an' done, all I wanna do 's go home an' forget any of this ever happened." 

Giles arched a skeptic brow. "Forget that she loves you?" 

"Forget everythin', mate. 'S too painful, even now. I can't help but feel a bit responsible, even after everythin' the lot of you 'ave told me 'bout bein' all helpful-like." He sighed. "'F I 'aden't been 'ere, she never woulda got so distracted." 

"And all of us would have gotten an extreme case of dead." The tone was unmistakable. The old man was calling out the full Ripper now. "Stop meddling with excuses. You know what you've done here. Who you've saved. What you've helped prevent from happening. You know it just as well as I do. It's this insidious self-loathing that you've never been able to rid yourself of. You're the one holding you back, Will. No one else. No...it would be easier if you had more than yourself to fight. But you don't. This is it." A beat passed. "You can't go home, you see? You're already here. Answer yourself honestly...do you really, beyond the guilt and the other that you put yourself through, do you really want to leave her?" 

A thick pause settled between them in immediate affect. William cast his eyes downward and twitched uncomfortably. Before any word could be spoken, enough was portrayed through the passing silence. Giles's mouth formed a solemn line of conclusion. With that alone, the need for verbal substantiation dissipated. 

"You see, then," the Watcher continued when an answer was not provided, "why you cannot go? Duty calls you back, but love and honor anchor you here. The question, however...the final question is not whether you stay or leave. That is material, in my opinion. I want what is best for her, even at the expense of others." He paused once more. "Do you love her, Will?" 

The vampire blinked at him incredulously. "Tha's a bloody stupid thing to ask." 

"Precisely. And she loves you. Nothing but guilt keeps you apart now. Guilt that has been pardoned and shared. The past cannot be redone, but the future is at your disposal." 

William sighed. "There's more to it than that, you git. An' you know it. Sure, it sounds all honky dory when 's not your unlife you're talkin' about, or her's, for that matter. There might come the day when she doesn' wan' me around, an' what then, eh? What am I to root myself 'ere for? I can love 'er forever. I will love 'er forever. I know I can. I've been there. But for Buffy...forever's a ruddy long time. I don' think she grasps it. You can't romance it up like that." 

There was little sign of conviction in his colleague's face. "Like what?" 

"Like it's so bloody easy!" 

"And it's not?" 

"No! 'Aven't you been listenin'? Not after all tha's 'appened. What we put each other through." 

"If you're not there for her, then she will be alone." Giles shook his head and heaved a breath. "And a slayer is supposed to be alone, inherently. But she will forfeit that position when this is all over. She will never _stop_ being the Slayer, of course...but her responsibility where the world is concerned is finalized. We can demand no more of her. Expect her to accomplish no greater feat, even though I know, should she try, she would succeed." He sighed once more and rubbed his eyes with fatigue. "But she might not stay here. I think it better that she don't, but I cannot make that decision for her. What would you say to that, Will? Instead of staying, you take her with you. Away from the Hellmouth where all she will do is fight the evil until it ultimately consumes her. It's not her battle anymore. It's not fair to her to make it so. Not after everything." 

"I'd say you're a crazy ole sod without a heart," William retorted bitterly. The look he received in reply was coated with astonishment, to say the least. "Wha? Take the Slayer away from her family an' friends? Away from the Bit? From Red an' everyone 'ere who need 'er? That would kill her, mate. You know it." 

"Yes. That's why I would let her make the decision. I would never presume to take her away against her will." Giles looked down somberly. "But she cannot stay. Not without subjecting herself to a never-ending cycle." 

The vampire nibbled lightly on his lip and nodded in agreement. "Right. I see that." 

"So where, then?" 

William sighed. "Listen...I don' 'ave the answers right now. There's a lot to think about. I told 'er I'd always be 'ere for 'er. Told 'er that plenty of times last night while we shared our touchy-feelies an' my expert words of wisdom. But we might not see eye-to-eye on what's in 'er best interest, Ripper. When's bein' around me ever done 'er any good? A phone call away 's better than nothin'." 

"Have someone you love beside you during times of unspeakable difficulty is the greatest incentive of all." 

A growl of frustration clawed at his throat. "You right annoyin' ponce! Stop!" 

"Stop what?" 

"Tryin' to do this. It won' work." Furiously, William paraded for the door. "I gotta talk with Peaches, all right? We need to figure wha's all out. Right." 

Giles waited until his friend was almost out of earshot before he spoke again. "You will think about it, though, won't you?" 

The peroxide vampire paused heavily in stride but did not turn, anger evaporating from his voice. "Tha's the problem, Ripper," he replied softly. "I am thinkin' about it. I 'ave been ever since last night. It's so bloody temptin' that my concept of wha's good an' wha's not 's completely hazed over. I love London, 'kay? Love it so much that, painful as it would be, I could've left 'ere without much difficulty 'ad things not gotten as ugly as they did. But what it comes down to is what I think 's best, right? Not what I want, not what you or she wants. I can't let myself think like that." 

Apparently, this was at least a part of the answer he was searching for. The Watcher grinned tightly and nodded, even as William could not see his compliance. "But you are considering it." 

"O'course." The previous notes of shame lingered nowhere near his tone. It was honest and straightforward-the type of answer Giles demanded of his cohort. "What bloke wouldn't?" 

That was enough. Nothing more was shared. As William retreated to trade these musings with his grand-sire, the Watcher exhaled deeply-both weary and pleased-and resumed his research. 

*~*~* 

Angel would have known Spike was behind him even if he hadn't lit up the second he stepped outdoors. It was second nature, and had been for a century and a half. The certain knowledge of when your family was nearby. When he put his mind to it, the peroxide vampire could be as quiet as a cat, but often he failed to apply any attempt. If he was there, it was because he wanted attention. Recognition. A pat on the back for something he didn't do, and if he did, not at all well. 

At least, that was Spike as he had known him. Spike of yesterday. The Spike who stood behind him was, for all intents and purpose, a stranger. A person he did not know. A person capable of so much more than anyone had comprehended. Change. Yes, change. So much change. The demon willingly converted to man. The man inside, breathing, feeling, acting in the way he thought was in the best interest for those around him. Such candor was beyond the grasp of what Spike could recognize. 

There was no doubt in Angel's mind that his childe had had absolutely no idea what he was grasping when he made the decision to seek out his soul. Spike, by nature, was a vile, selfish creature that only acted if his behavior would in some way benefit his status in life. No deed portrayed had truly noble cause behind it. Certainly the want of a soul was no different. Points for intent, sure, but had he truly known where it would lead him...that the Slayer's love was only a matter of time from being his. That his souled self would revert to a mini-watcher in many senses...returning to that plane of humanity would have been an impossibility. A soul was more than a conscience; it was a completely defining sense of self. A new will. A new understanding. 

At least, that was what he wanted to believe. To credibly grasp that Spike-evil, arrogant, cocky Spike had done something so completely selfless out of human guilt was a concept beyond his experience and perceptibility. They hadn't spent much time together since that first night when the revelations were made. Even then, Angel had been hesitant. Unwilling to believe. Not _wanting_ to believe. 

When a creature so entirely filled with iniquity willfully reverted to the light, why was it so that he could not? Soulless Angel was not a drinking buddy. Soulless Angel was not someone, chipped or not, that you could trust your family with. Soulless Angel was one would never let into your home. Soulless Angel knew nothing of real love. There was lust and jealousy and obsession. Oh, there was obsession. But love? The word held no meaning to him. Four letters to occupy unused space, not at all wisely. For all that he had shared with Darla, with Drusilla, there was nothing beyond the physical. 

If Soulless-But-Chipped Angel had sometime during the duration of his self-imprisonment discovered a loophole in the manufactured wiring keeping him jailed, he would have seized it. The Slayer would be dead-captured during a moment of unguided trust. He would seize hold of her vulnerability and play it like a harp. Soulless-But-Chipped Spike was a different story. Whatever ties he felt to Buffy had kept him from feeding on her after times of intimacy, and Lord knew he had had plenty of chances. 

How did that work? The willful want of redemption? The seeking of something he couldn't possibly desire, and further, the acceptance made with such eager and open arms? 

That was of the past, though. There was no use in brooding over it now. Things had changed. Things had drastically changed. He and Buffy now shared a common trait. The thought of her classified as a creature of darkness sent cold shudders to his already frozen heart. She was above it. Above the sentencing of vampirehood. Above everything that made him into who he was. What he was. She claimed to know what she had done, and yet there was no way she could make sense of it. To fully acknowledge what the path she chose would entail. 

A puff of smoke drifted beyond his head. Angel heaved a needless sigh and arched his gaze in Spike's direction. "Is she back yet?" He knew the answer, of course. He would know as soon as she entered the house. As soon as she was a block away from the front door. As soon as the thought of returning for the night crossed her mind. The silence demanded fillers, and nothing seemed to fit as well as an inquiry to which he required no reply. 

"No," came the retort, knowing the angle he manipulated but letting the unspoken implication pass without comment. "Don' reckon she'll be back for a while, yet. Out there's all normal to 'er. Wanderin' through the ruddy cemetery night after night." 

"Home is her prison," Angel murmured. And he was abashed with sudden culpability-the source from nowhere. Not made with suggestion, rather the insinuation of numerous standing shortcomings. It was impossible not to feel a twinge of responsibility for the outcome of this horrible mess. "We should have tried harder. If...if I hadn't stopped to think...I could have had Fred and Gunn here in a matter of hours." 

"An' that would've helped?" Spike retorted with poignant cynicism, blowing a ring of smoke into the night air. 

"They're good at what they do. Whether or not we could have saved her is another issue, but it would have helped." 

The other vampire sighed, head falling to gaze at the face of his boots. "There's a number o' things any one o' us could've done to save 'er. We jus' din't know, tha's all." He took another drag of his cigarette, smoking away the manufactured excuses that convinced him no more than they did Angel. The words filled his lungs with Giles's unhelpful influence. 

"Is Watcher Boy still comin'? Thought he'd've been 'ere by now." 

"Wes? No. I reached him. Turned around after much convincing." Angel fisted his hands tightly. "There's not a decision I can make right now that would be the correct one. If I bring the others into this, they could get hurt. If I don't, we could lose the world. I don't want to put them in danger, especially with as busy as things have been recently." 

"Busy?" Spike repeated, blowing another ream of smoke into the air. 

"Like you wouldn't believe. At least before I left...things might have died down now." 

"I'd say leave 'em out." The platinum vampire sighed. "Don' think it'd be exactly good fer business if things started goin' all wonky on the home front because of some vamp troubles in a soddin' town not 'alf of California's livin' population's even heard of." 

Angel nodded. "I suppose...but the Master is not just-" 

"Some vamp, I know. 'E's the one who changed everythin'. Don' think I don' know that." A brief silence passed between them. "Listen mate, I don' wanna chat 'bout this anymore than you do, but Ripper's got me all ancy. I told Buffy last night that you an' I would always be there for 'er." At that, the older vampire finally turned to meet his childe's imploring gaze with tacit understanding. There was no need of anything further than shared comfort. "Fact is," Spike continued, "that we're it. You, me, an' her. From 'ere on out. After the Scoobies are gone an' buried...it'll be us, less we get clumsy an' find ourselves staked." 

Angel grinned tightly, but there was no humor behind it. "Two centuries' worth of experience just doesn't earn any weight around here, does it?" 

"Well, jus' in case you need the reminder, it was _you_ she killed to save the rotten world." 

"I seem to recall being told you were in on that deal." 

"So what if I was? Point's still there." 

This felt new, and strangely familiar. Jesting, mild as it was. Acting natural around his childe. Sitting next to him and holding a civilized conversation about grown-up material. It was something he would never have granted Spike capable of. And while, true, the vampire at his side wasn't intrinsically Spike, the imitation was good enough to make anyone double take in surprise. 

What he said next surprised him-not for the words, rather the burden behind it. 

"Ripper wants me to stay." 

"Is this a problem?" 

Spike narrowed his eyes and tossed him a wry glance. "What do you think?" 

"I think it's fairly simple; either you want to stay and do, or you don't..." Angel arched a brow. "You do want to stay, don't you?" 

"O'course. But I also wanna go home." A sigh coursed through his body. "More over, I wan' her to be happy. She deserves it, after all this." 

Angel glanced downward. "Then leaving likely isn't your best choice," he reported. "It's sickening, the way she loves you. All of you. The demon and the man together. What she feels...I can't presume to know anything. Whatever it is that you have with her...it's different from anything she's had before. Different from what we had-not any more or less powerful, but different. It's the difference she needs, growing up with it. Maturing into the person she is now. What she will need to keep her steady. Yes, she deserves to be happy. After a life of forced servitude to a world that doesn't know you exist? I can't imagine that." 

Spike scoffed. "Sure, go 'head. Make it sound all easy. You an' Ripper really oughta tag team on this one, you know? Ruin a bloke's chance of ever doin' what 'e alone thinks is right." 

"I didn't say I think you should stay," he replied softly, earning a confused look. "I don't know what you should do. Giles has a point, of course. He always does. But he hasn't taken into account what binds her here. What makes her stay the way she is. To him, she's just Buffy." Angel sighed. "I don't blame him, of course. He never thought this could happen. I don't believe any of us did." 

A thin silence settled between them. Knowing and uncomfortable. 

"You're talkin' 'bout the curse, aren't you?" 

Another deeply taken needless breath. "Yeah. I am. And it's the happiness that scares me. The happiness that makes this entire situation so completely unfair. Understand that she can never be happy. No matter how she deserves it. How she has earned it. The curse is doing what it should-sentencing her to a term she should never have received. An eternity of misery to the woman who warrants more than her share of happiness. This is my sentence, see? I earned it with everything I did. She didn't. She chose immortality over watching her sister die...and I don't know how or why...and it never occurred to her. It's more than just living forever, Spike. More than drinking blood, avoiding sunlight, being burned by crosses and holy water...it's the willful sacrifice of any shot she had to be completely satisfied." He looked down at his laced fingers. The vampire beside him had not uttered a word, moved a centimeter, even blinked for long minutes of pivotal understanding. "I'm not sure what would do it for her," Angel said a minute later. "It could be anything. She has no guilt to plague her. Nothing to focus on to keep her from reaching that point. And if you stayed..." 

"Dear Lord," Spike whispered, finding his voice, or lack thereof, clinging to air with a gasp. "I can't...why din't I...why din't Rupert-" 

"You didn't because you were focused on keeping her calm. On getting her home. It's not a curse for you, you see. It's a choice. You don't have to worry about those things." Angel shook his head. "And Giles...he didn't because, well...like I said. The most obvious things can overwhelm our better senses. 

"I suppose my final answer would have to be, then, I don't know. The last thing I want her to do is grieve. Things would be easier for her if you decided this is where you belonged." He closed his eyes tightly. "Use your judgment, Will." The uninhibited use of his given name lent Spike a moment of honored reflection, but Angel didn't let him dwell. "You've proved you have your share these past few weeks. What do _you_ think is best?" 

And time stood still. Forever, it seemed, they sat in silence, hovering over the final statement. He could nearly hear the clockwork tickings of his childe's thoughts. The thinking. The toil and torment that poured down the pathway to every possible conclusion. And then there was nothing. No proper way for the evening to end. No one distinct answer that would solve the massive riddle holding over the household like dam willing to break. With heartbreaking defeat, Spike turned to him and uttered the three words that struck devastation into the heart all mankind. 

"I don't know." 


	29. The Gate

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

   


"I have it." 

The statement itself was located somewhere between the realm of implausibility and complete bewilderment. For days, it seemed, there had been nothing. Word after word followed the continual stream of dead ends. And suddenly all was lifted with a simple declaration. He had it. Of course Giles had it. That was his job - to get it when things were darker than ever before. 

But all was all right, now, because Giles had it. 

"The Gate of Abraxas," he read, glancing to Dawn for verification. A string of enthusiastic nods immediately commenced; the girl's eyes brimmed wide with delayed recollection and acknowledgment. "Yes," the Watcher continued. "This does make sense. "Named after the God Abraxas, whose title numerically values three hundred and sixty five - otherwise, the duration of a year. It was believed by those who worshipped him that he commanded that number of gods. Some record him as virtuous...others do not." 

"Well," Xander ventured, "if they named a hell-gate after him, I wouldn't put my support behind that vote." 

Giles nodded distantly, flipping a page. "Some demonologists declare he was...well...a demon. A demon with the head of a king and serpents forming at his feet." With a sigh, he looked up, eyes connecting instantly with William. "That would make sense, then. Didn't the Master name himself after a serpentine monster?" 

"Yeh," the peroxide vampire verified with a short nod. "Geryon from the _Inferno_. Right bastard." 

"Enough with the origin," came Buffy's distant input. She was stationed in the corner of the living room, purposefully detached. Hardly three words had been coaxed out of her in communal conversation since she returned from patrolling days before. She, William, and Angel spent most evenings in each other's company, chatting about things they would not discuss with others. When she felt ready to retire, she would beckon the peroxide vampire to her side, and they wordlessly retreated to the upper levels where they were not heard from until the next evening. "I don't care who made the gate, or who's used it in the past. I'm only interested in two things. When the Master is going to open it unleash hell on earth, and how I stop him." 

At that, the Watcher looked up once more, his eyes distant with worry. A cough scratched at his throat and he adjusted his glasses before tacitly returning to the reading. 

"Giles." The warning in Buffy's voice was well perceived. 

"It...umm..." He sighed and conceded, glancing up once more as he placed the book aside. "Not too dissimilar from Glory's ritual, if I read correctly. The Gate, theoretically, is anywhere and everywhere. At any time, the Master may access it, if he has what is needed for the rite. It is not a matter of merely one hell dimension, you see. It's all of them. Every one that populates the time and space continuum will be unlocked once Abraxas is activated. However...he lacks something in order to complete the ceremony." With the deadest of expressions, Giles met her inquisitive face, sorrow overwhelming his features. "And that's you, Buffy. The Gate will be outlined with the entrails of a pig and protected by..." He frowned and reopened the book, eyes squinting at the text. "Ivory blood, it looks like. Yes. It will open under the influence of the essence of a slayer. Tainted essence. Impurity, otherwise. Adulterated blood." 

If possible, the room grew even quieter when he finished speaking. For a long, uncomfortable moment, a dull nothingness engulfed the atmosphere. The look on Buffy's face was neither angry nor astonished; rather grim and accepting. Instead, she merely nodded, stood, and took a turn about the room, face forgone as though lost in a trance. No one dared move or spoke a word, too fearful of disrupting a moment of fragility, of breaking her before she took a final wind. 

Then at a highly anticlimactic moment, the resilience she relied on crumpled and Buffy dissolved into shrill, high-pitched giggles. Instantly, William tore from his mannequin state and rushed to her side, attempting without success to comfort her with an embrace. She would have none of it. With effort, she pulled away, furiously wiping the tears from her cheeks as her laughs became harder to grasp. 

"Oh then!" she finally exploded. "Well, doesn't that just make _perfect_ sense? Huh? It's not enough he uses my sister to...he conveniently leaves out the part where - hey - I'm going to end the world, wanna know how? So what have I done? Huh? What did I...I helped him! I helped that sadistic sonofabitch. I-" 

Simultaneously, Angel and William stepped forward and were both ignored. 

"Luv, please-" 

"Oh no. Don't pull that." Buffy shook her head madly as her cries grew louder. "Don't you dare try to make everything seem like it's all right and easy, okay? It's _not_, Spike. It never, ever was." Every fiber of her being was trembling with rage that had to be placed somewhere. With desperation, she grasped the thing nearest to her - a vase owned by her mother - and watched with empty satisfaction as it broke into a thousand shards against the mantle. 

"It's not easy," she said firmly, when the initial shock of her outburst had withered with passing understanding. If Buffy was at all disconcerted with her behavior, she did little to show it. "And it's certainly not all right. I know what I did. I don't need any goddamn reminders. I know that if the world doesn't end, I'll be here for a very, very long time. And you know what really bites? If I had to go back and do over - even now, even knowing this - I'd do it all again. Because the world means SHIT to me if the people I love get hurt." 

Tears were skating down Dawn's face, and she looked beyond the point of intelligible communication. When she tried to speak and failed, she choked and ran upstairs. Her door closed with an accentuated slam. 

"I think we're jumping the gun here," Willow said abruptly, rising to her feet. She earned an irritated glance from every angle in the room, and fought quickly to redeem herself. "I mean, we didn't let Giles finish. He didn't...there has to be some way to stop it. Has to be." Her gaze focused squarely on her friend, hardened with conviction. "Buffy, you said that nothing just happens. That everything happens for a reason. I know that's true. There's...you changed because you were supposed to. I know - hell, even I don't see how that's possible, but it has to be. Some way, it has to be." 

"Has to be?" the Slayer spat back spitefully. "It was meant to happen so I could be the reason the world ends?" 

"You don't know that, Buff," Xander intervened. "I mean, how many times has the world possibly ended? Hmmm? About as many times as you've stopped it." 

"That was different. I was never the _key_ to destruction before." 

"Yes you were." Angel this time. Calm and collected - masking his worry through words. "Of course you were. You stopped the world from ending only six years ago by acting the part of the key, correct? And you did it for the same reason... There's nothing to do now but fight it. That's what you're here for. That's what you were born for. Fighting it. And when it's over, you can quit. That's what you've earned." 

Buffy laughed again, loud and stinging of falsity. "Oh yeah. Everyone keeps telling me that. Like it's _so_ easy. Just stop being the Slayer - it'll be fun. News flash! I've never tried that before. It doesn't work. It _never_ works." 

William stepped forward again. "You can fight it all you want, luv. 'S still 'ere. It'll always be 'ere. An' you know it. Accept it an' deal or die. Those are your choices. You've come this far already. Don' let a little thing like an apocalypse get in the way now. We got ourselves a vamp to slay." 

"Yeah, well...you guys can have him." With a conclusive huff, she turned and followed the path taken by her sister only minutes before. "I won't do this. No. Not ever. He can't open the portal without me, so I'll just stay right here. Right here where he can't reach me. Where I-" 

Giles hissed a sigh and rolled his head in aggravation. "That's ridiculous," he said sternly. "And you know it. Buffy Summers doesn't shy from her duties, no matter how ugly they are. You can't just wait here for him to come for you. While he prowls about stealing the lives of innocents. There are many ways to hurt you without ever laying a finger on you, and you above all people should know that." 

"Of course." Buffy threw her arms up in defeat. "So, what, Giles? What? Do _you_ have a master plan? Because the last time I went up against this guy, there was that little issue of me becoming dead. Again! Why do you think next time will amount to anything?" 

"Why do you presume that he will conclude his hunt with you?" the Watcher snapped. "I tell you, if he cannot use you, he will settle for other sources. Faith, perhaps. I'm sure her say in the end of the world would be most memorable. And even if she disappoints him, there are two new slayers somewhere out there. It doesn't have to be anywhere specific. Just kill a slayer and open the Gate." 

"So why did he let Spike take me away, huh? I mean, wouldn't it have made more sense to just use the dead girl then?" 

"I believe Will was correct in his original assessment." Giles shook his head and heaved another sigh. "The Master did not count on our being in possession of a curse that would summon your soul and decided to play it safe by eliminating your circle of friends. I'd wager he planned on encountering you somewhere on the killing fields. It's amazing you haven't seen him yet, what with all the nights you've spent patrolling." 

That seemed to be the final buckshot needed to crumple the Slayer's impenetrable shield. A beat passed before the real tears came. Hard and true, desperate and screaming. She waited for William's embrace before falling to her knees, throwing her arms around his neck as she muffled her cries into his shoulder. He did not attempt to calm her, rather let her scream her fury and grief at the world she had lost onto his weary body. A few strokes of encouragement glided down her back, but any further prompt would be resented. 

When at last her sobs subsided, William released a breath. Kneading her skin through her shirt supportively, weary that at any minute she could collapse and wash away once more. Nothing that had been voiced rang one syllable of spuriousness. There was nothing anyone could say to make her hurt less. Nothing anyone could do but stand in silence and wait until the storm was over. 

When he thought the worst had passed, the platinum vampire pulled her tightly to him with empty comfort. The touch was reciprocated as though she were in the arms of a snake. His shirt was damp with the affects of her sorrow. There was nothing to do or say but hold her to him and wait it out. 

"So what now?" Buffy finally croaked, voice raw with worry and tears. "We go fight this evil? I wait until he decides it's time to make a move and right out kill me?" With some reluctance, she tore herself away from William's arms, not bothering to wipe the residue of her outburst away from her face. "How, Giles? How do we stop it?" 

The Watcher, tainted with manifest concern, cleared his throat and looked down once more to his reading. "Ummm...quite. The Master is the only one who can perform the ritual. It has something to do with his heritage. The bloodline of those before him." He glanced upward with resolution. "The one you killed - and the one before him...all have had similar opportunities that they discarded for one reason or another." 

"I explained this all a long time ago," William interjected with an empty smile as he brushed strands of hair slick with tears away from her eyes. "Vamps talk big, luv. Those really interested in death an' destruction. Peaches 'ere wanted the world to end." He tossed a sideways glance in the implicated direction just in time to see Angel flinch in affect. Even now, that held some gratification - no matter how close they might have to be. "'Course, 'e wasn't the only one. Dru was 'alf-mad to end all civilization. She-" 

"Half mad?" Xander retorted cynically. "So where'd the other half come from?" 

The peroxide vampire leered at him for a second before continuing. "But, as you know, not all of us are that way. I never was - with or without a soul. Anythin' I did...helpin' the Judge, fo' starters...that was jus' to entertain the lady. I was happy 's long as she was." At that, he chuckled bitterly at himself and rolled his eyes. "Bloody wanker..." 

"Glad I'm not the only one thinking that," Harris quipped. Willow tossed him a glance stationed between amusement and disapproval before thwapping his shoulder and motioning to shush. 

"But the Master...the one before this git an' all...all of 'em that came first...I doubt they wanted the world to end anymore than I did. Sure, what's-'is-face attempted to release the sodding Hellmouth. Who 'asn't tried that in the past century at leas' once?" 

Blank stares gathered around the room. William bit his lip and frowned. "Jus' me then? Oh well. Point's still there." 

"You tried to unleash the Hellmouth?" Willow asked, brows perked. 

"Yeah. Well, not really. Din't give it 'alf an effort. Right after I left L.A...or was that New York? Bloody hell, I can't remember. I was drinkin' a lot then. Anyway,   
I came 'ere an' decided the world wasn't worth livin' in without Dru." He shook his head in self-disgust. "Got myself really drunk, 'f you can imagine. Went to the rubble an' did my damndest...to get drunker. Din't work, o'course - the Hellmouth part, anyway. After I came to, I went out to find Buffy an' pick a right fight. Initiative found me instead." William shrugged. "S'pose the rest is history." 

He wasn't sure what he was expecting when he looked into the Slayer's eyes, but it wasn't what he found. A new light of shared amusement cackled behind the otherwise gray shell. A bright spark rimmed in the red bruises of aching despair. It was bright and refreshing, and a taste he loved. Never before had he prompted such a reaction by talking about his past dirties. And even after all they had shared since his return, he was so unaccustomed to fondness on her part that receiving any such response was warm and welcome. 

Then he knew why. He had referred to himself in the first person. He acknowledged the real Spike in his existence, discarding all previous attempts to hide it. Why it should make her smile, he did not know, but anything was better than grief. Hell, he'd tell her a million of his former self's tales if only to see that twinkle in her eyes again and again. 

"They weren't kidding when they'd said you'd been around," Xander muttered, earning another sharp elbow. 

"'Ey - I was a git, sure. I've done a lot of bloody things that I'm not proud of. Things that would make the lot of you 'ave bad dreams for the rest of your lives. Things I can barely..." Dear god, now _he_ was crying. With a pathetic sniff, he glanced to Angel and was surprised to find understanding. Why he was surprised, he did not know. It was simply another new flavor that required adjusting. "But tha's over an' done with. The point is, this bloke's really got a yen to destroy all civilization, an' tha's not something you get from many vamps. Not genuinely, anyway." 

"So now that we're all thoroughly reminded why it is we hate soulless Spike," Xander said quickly, "could we get back to the matter at hand? What now? How do we stop this?" 

"It's very simple, really," Giles replied, adjusting himself. "Once the Master is dead, all chances of him opening up this...gate are lost as well." 

"And we do that how?" 

"Just like the rest of them," the Slayer said softly. "The old fashioned way." 

Willow's eyes widened. "A stake? That's it?" 

Buffy shrugged and bit her lip. "A really big stake?" 

"'E'll dust jus' as easily as any of 'em," William said confidently. "I mean, girl 'as wicked powerful strength now, not to mention a decade of advanced experience an' a crowd of brassed Scoobies who'd love to get a piece of this bloke." 

"I hate to be the pessimist," Angel ventured with delicate undertone. "But I suppose someone must be rational. Buffy can beat him. We all know she can. Still, we must face facts...that doesn't mean that he still can't beat her." At that, the Slayer drew in an unnecessary breath and cast her eyes downward in silent acknowledgement. William felt a rush of agitation for his grand-sire but did not voice it for seeing the truth behind words no one wanted to hear. "He has once, and I think we all learned from that not to underestimate what lengths he is willing to go to." A long silence followed once his share was voiced, and the vampire grew exasperated in affect. "Well, someone had to say it! Do you think I like the idea? It kills me. But we have to be prepared. _We have to._ Giles...how do we stop the Gate of Abraxas from opening should the Master get his hands on her?" 

The Watcher heaved a sigh and cleared his throat. "The text is not specific," he reported. "There are more inconsistencies here than...well, you can imagine. From what I gather, the Gate will only close with a sacrifice of pure psyche, or spirit, if you will." If possible, the air grew even more silent. "Abraxas seems to think that justifies the means. It would, of course, kill the carrier - but that is the material point. Something horrible retracted in exchange for something good. Should it come down to that...you-" 

"Yeah." There was no emotion behind Buffy's voice, and the gaze behind her eyes was long distant and dead. It held a certain dry acceptance: the knowledge of fate before she consigned herself to it. "Sure. I know what it means. Right. Sacred calling and all that bullshit. I know. I know. My death. Again. I know." 

"No," Giles said solidly. "I don't believe so. You _are_ dead, Buffy. You have already crossed that threshold. More besides, impurity resides within you now. Impurity in its darkest form. No...making a martyr of yourself would do little good to anyone." With another sigh, he glanced at the remaining contestants, face weary and grave. "It would have to be...one of us." 

The Slayer's breath hitched in her throat, and for a wild second, it sounded her heart was pounding. Her eyes widened like saucers before her body collapsed in trembles of fervent denial. Every strand of her core shook with negation. "No. It won't happen," she said sharply. "I won't _let_ it happen. No, no, no." Frantically, she turned back to William. "We're on it. Now. You, me, and Angel. I'm willing to sit here and let the world end, but I am sure as hell not willing to let my friends sacrifice themselves for its sake. Not for all the _bullshit_ it does to pay us back. That's _my_ fucking job. Let's go. Now. He wants a fight? Sure. We'll bring one right to him." 

The new resolution grasping her features was so counterpoint to the sheered frustration of only moments ago that Angel and William both lent pause and glanced at each other worriedly. Undoubtedly, this was the same Buffy they had known for years - rushing headfirst into danger's grasp when it threatened the face of her kin. The same Buffy that would allow the world to end for lack of conviction but refused to see her friends suffer. Somewhere in her conscious, the planes of reality and ideology had landed on separate crossways. They had all seen it before when Glory nearly stole Dawn's existence. All for the sake of family was she willing to go that extra mile, whether or not it meant her death. 

"I know what I'm doing," the Slayer said firmly when she saw their troubled expressions. "For God's sake, if I don't after all this time, then who the hell signed me up for this gig? Let's go now. Let's get this goddamned thing over with." 

"You are unprepared," Giles said with gravity, taking a step forward. "You have no idea what the Master will throw at you. He has been arranging this for a long while now, and-" 

"Well, _fuck_ that!" she spat. "I'm _not_ going to sit here while he makes all his plans to destroy the world. Nuh uh. Not without me. You got the wrong girl. He wants me; he can have me. But don't even _think_ about touching my friends. That's why I'm here, right? To help destroy it? Well, let's get to destroying, then." A firm lack of conviction scratched her vocals, her voice still flooded with the tears of just a few minutes ago. Yet that girl was gone. Buffy the Pacifist died in committee, and it was the Slayer's turn to emerge. She turned to William, eyes flashing with intent. "He'll just have to fight us all off, first." 

The platinum vampire thought the clog in his throat was large enough to choke a killer whale, but he swallowed and nodded, offering a vague smile. "Tha's right, pet," he assured her. "'E isn't takin' you away without a good brawl, an' I aim to give 'im one." He eyed Angel with indifference. "Same fo' Peaches, I'm sure." 

"Yeah," the other agreed. "We're here for you, Buffy. Just tell us what you want to do." 

"I want to go. Now." She turned back to William. "Could you get back to the Initiative? Back to the pathway you took?" 

A look of warning caught his eye, and he saw the Watcher shaking his head in fervent suggestion. However, he could not lie to her. Not now. Not with all that had passed, even if it was for her own good. Buffy would not sit around and wait under these conditions, and he would much rather be there with her than have her wandering the town alone. "Yeah, luv. I can get us there." 

Giles released an exasperated sigh, but there was no contesting the resolution set in his Slayer's face. The look was not particularly unique to Buffy, but her determination was not something that merited trifling. With a weary nod, he gave his otherwise unneeded consent, and William grasped his love's hand and marched wearily to the door. 

"Tell Dawn..." The Slayer said as she turned to secure the house behind her, demeanor softening. It was strange the way that worked. One minute she was all business, and the next she was a little girl again. A little girl carrying the burden of the world for the sake of responsibility and not choice. The soft side of her persona that only those closest to her were allowed a glimpse at. At that moment, he felt proud and mutually unworthy to be among those select few. "Tell Dawn that I...she means more to me than-" 

The Watcher held up a hand of understanding, and a small, faint smile tickled his lips. "She knows, Buffy. And despite her otherwise unmovable disposition, she understands. All too well, in fact." 

She nodded. "And...should something happen..." 

"Somethin' won't," William snarled. "I won' let it." 

"But if something should happen...you will..." 

"We'll take care of her, Buff," Xander said softly. "You know we will." 

A soft, complacent grin shadowed her mouth. "Yeah. I suppose I do." The platinum vampire rested his arm around her shoulder, prompting her outdoors. "Goodbye." 

_Why is it,_ he thought glumly, _that goodbyes seem so final when ya know you're prolly not comin' back?_

And like that, they were off. Held together by honor and duty. William felt Buffy grasp his hand tightly for reassurance, and though he reciprocated the touch with a dose of goodwill, the hope burning inside was already beginning to wither. The stroke of usual stamina and courage flashed behind her eyes whenever he looked at her, and it killed him to read the message ablaze in her hidden abyss. She did not want to die. Not really. Not again. That was it. There was nothing behind that knowledge. It was a reason for fighting. A reason for living. A reason for _dying_ if it meant she didn't have to. All he knew was he was standing beside the woman he loved, and he would fight the forces of hell to keep her in this world. Even if it meant sacrificing everything that constructed his humanity. 


	30. Take Ten

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**   
  


Without any subliminal indication, conversation was entirely essential at this point. The ground crackled under their feet as they walked, the gaps around them spanning into holes of deep silence. Even the nightly creatures that usually chirped their mournful song were not heard. As if life itself had dwindled to a slow-paced tedium of predictability. Silence was not appreciated nor, by any means, guiltless. It struck a powerful nerve and resonated out a melody of warning. 

"Where is this place?" Angel asked, voice bland against the strain of nothingness it competed with. 

"Nibblet an' I took one of many tunnels. We came out somewhere in..." The cemetery was dark, but not one had difficulty seeing his gesture. "There." 

"Somewhere?" his grand-sire replied irritably. "You told us-" 

"...that I could get you there, right," William retorted. "An' I 'ave. We're there aren't we? We jus' gotta find which 'there' to get to." 

Buffy nodded, a small smirk on her face. "Yeah. You just love skipping around those technicalities, don't you?" 

"'Ey, luv. Don' you start-" 

"You know where it is. I believe you." With a sigh, she turned to Angel. "There's every possibility that tonight may be...well, the fourth and hopefully final 'it' for me. Reservations? Hell yeah. Regrets...no regrets. I know. It's my sacred calling and I have to do what I have to do. But excuse me if I'm not altogether eager to reach my death." 

A small sound of protest escaped his throat and was quickly overpowered as he nodded in infinite understanding. "And you need time." 

The Slayer chuckled humorlessly. "I need about a year and a half, but ten minutes'll do." 

While he was not in support of leaving her, even if it was briefly, William nodded and took purchase beside Angel. He was stopped before he could calculate what had occurred, Buffy's hand curled tightly around his forearm. 

"No, you stay. I...there are some things..." She looked to her former thoughtfully, and both were amazed when the grand-sire nodded again in comprehension, took a breath, and left. 

Then it was just the two of them. Alone on the cemetery - such a familiar setting. William looked at her for long seconds, but she did not say anything. He wondered if his presence was simply for comfort. These past days had opened his eyes to wonders of silence, and how it, above all things, could cure the most substantial abrasions. But then, the graveyard had more than enough to offer. No, she wanted something. Something more than reassurance or company. 

"Will..." she said softly, perturbing the stillness with her angelic voice. Even in darkest of times, the tenor of her mood reflected the night with skillful harmony. "You know I wasn't lying." 

"'Bout what, luv?" 

"Tonight...might be..." 

"No. It won'." Tentatively, William took her hands in his and placed feather light kisses over her skin. "Not 's long 's I'm standin', pet. I came 'alfway across the world for you, an' I aim to keep you around." 

A small, somber grin tickled her face. "Not just for the frequent flyer miles?" 

The peroxide vampire smirked in turn, gently drawing loose strands of hair from her eyes. "'ll admit, that was a perk." 

"Sp...Will..." 

He rumbled against her in mirth, a note of resigning acceptance coursing through his long dead veins. "'S all right, pet. I give. It was stupid to ask you...don' think I'm used to it by now? After all, I was Spike a lot longer than I was William. Can't hardly teach anyone new tricks these days." 

"We have something serious to talk about." 

"Now? During your ten minutes of free-time?" 

"We needed privacy for this." Buffy heaved a breath of composure, pulling away from his reach and neared a tombstone that towered her in height, resting against it solemnly. "Angel...he...he says he understands, right? And he...he comes really close to getting it. Scarily close. But he never will. We're not the same. We used to be, but we're not anymore. You know that, don't you?" 

William blinked his surprise, taken aback more than he would have admitted. Surges of scorned pride and residual hurt flooded his insides without suggestion. It was the sort of understanding that had to be pointed out rather than realized. Her insight was astonishing at times, and he had never fully credited the potency behind her power. Somewhere, his subconscious fixed Angel alongside the girl that would always be the love of his life. The king of the pedestal on which she judged the men she welcomed into her bed. And it had always been that way, because she had always said so. Not now, of course, but plenty back then. In the Before-Time. When he was nothing but a monster. 

His silence was all the answer she required. Pursing her lips in poignant reflection, Buffy nodded and crossed her arms, eyes flittering shut in a moment of self-shame. "No, you probably wouldn't know that. After all I've told you, you still don't believe what I say? That I-" 

The words were coming again and he could not stop them. That didn't mean he would not try. "Don't." 

Buffy blinked in frustrated astonishment, and even without central provocation, it pushed her over the edge. "Don't. _Don't?_ What? Did you go deaf the first thousand times I told you? Or have you mystically forgotten that I'm sorry, and that, for reasons beyond me, I love you. You big fucking dope, I love you. I love you so much that it got me killed. So much that I was looking the other way while the Master decided to play with my lifespan. Decided to kidnap my little sister. This isn't _fun_ for me, Spike. You have no idea how much I want _not_ to love you. But if I'm going to meet my death...AGAIN...you have to know. _I_ have to know." 

He could not look at her. Could barely speak, so many words leaping into his throat and getting the better of him. "Know what?" 

"Everything! What is there anymore? Huh? After this, I'm done. It's over." The finality in her tone persuaded his eyes upward. "And it'll be hard as hell. I can't...be here...and not help. Not when there's a goddamn apocalypse every five minutes. Once...when this is over, I'm gone. I decided...well, I've been thinking about it ever since we talked that first night." He made a move to speak but she held up her hand in quest for silence. "And I decided tonight, I guess. After what happened back at the house. I just realized that this is it. This is Hell. It doesn't matter if the Master opens the Gate, because I'm already here. Not like before...when they tore me out of...it's so much worse. To know I can't touch that ever again. That it's...not there waiting for me..." 

"It is, luv," William said softly. 

"Do you really believe that? Impurity gets rewarded?" 

At that, he sneered. "Bollocks. You're not impure. 'S the thing that killed you, livin' in you tha's all impure-like. What counts, darlin'..." He took a step forward and placed a hand over her nonbeating heart. "Tha's 'ere. An' tha's all you need. Oh, Sweet...the world'll end sooner or later. You can't always stop it. One day, it'll jus' up an' not be 'ere anymore. Then you'll get your rest." 

"Even if that happens to be tonight?" 

"It won' be." 

"But what if it is?" 

William rolled his eyes and tore away. "Don' you think I've thought 'bout that? Tha's why I'm 'ere, pet. For you. All for you. It always is. I can't bloody stand the thought of you...I've lost you too many times, Buffy. Not again. Not tonight. We're show that rotten sod, an' things'll be right again." 

She bit back a snicker. "Things will be _right?_ Wow! Good God, Spike, when have things _ever_ been right? You can't honestly believe that. So the Master goes down. Bye bye Geryon. Then what? I'll tell you..." The Slayer stepped forward and roughly seized him by the jaw, forcing his gaze to meet hers. "The next one...the one after me has been called. Twice now, actually. They get it. I'm officially handing it over. I tried with Kendra, I tried with Faith...I'll succeed with these next two. Then I'm taking Dawn and we're leaving. Leaving Sunnydale. Leaving California. Hell, maybe even the good ole USA. And I won't come back. I'll go stay with Giles, or...something. But-" 

"Giles?" The peroxide vampire retorted, arching his scarred eyebrow. "Ripper? Luv, you gotta-" 

"There's nothing, Spike. Nothing to keep me here. Xander and Willow, sure. I love them more than I can...but you..." Tears began cascading down her cheeks, resolute and final. With expressive tenderness, she released the hold on his chin and arched her touch to caress his cheek. William involuntarily closed his eyes and leaned into her hand, purring softly. "Assuming this...assuming we beat this thing...I have an eternity to spend on this goddamn planet, and I want it to be with you." 

His inward declaration collapsed along with the last threads of stamina. With ceremony, he released a throaty growl and sank to his knees, wrapping his arms around her middle and drawing her as close to him as possible. She was right, after all. There was nothing left. Nothing left for her here, nothing to tie her down except her sister. Nothing that would enable her to live the only way she could anymore. Damn Giles for making sense. Damn Buffy for listening. Damn himself for waiting so long to hold that love as it was meant to be held; cautiously, amorously, stroked and coddled until it blossomed into a garden of wealth and meaningfulness. 

Reality tore him back from the heavenly fields of perfection. Angel's voice, stern and fearful, echoed resoundingly in his ears, and he knew it could never be. A cry scratched at his throat and he pushed her away, stumbling to his feet as he angrily wiped his face for the instinctual fear of tears. The hurt that overwhelmed her eyes nearly killed him, but he had to be strong. Had to continue for her sake, and for his. He loved her, but he had not said it. He could not. Even if she knew it. Even if the world knew it, he could not say it. 

He could not give her that hope. It was too cruel. 

Anger replaced the grief that pumped his dead veins. Nonspecific anger, directed to no one and everyone at once. Anger that demanded compensation for many wrongs. Anger that had provided him a thousand reasons to commit the terrible deeds of his past. Anger for the world - anger at himself. Damn fate and its pitiless irony. Damn it all for smacking him down the moment the shadow of plausible joy had peeked into his otherwise gloomy existence. She could not see. She would never see as long as he was there. Unable to stop himself, he jumped to his feet, roaring and bursting into game face, advancing to her with lightening speed until she was pinned against the gravestone. 

"Is this what you want, Buffy?" William snarled, yellow eyes flashing. "Is this it? The monster? The dark? The big, evil bad? Right 'ere, baby, whaddya say? Right now? With the stone against your back an' Peaches wanderin' uselessly through the graveyard? Right when the world's gonna end by some portal-happy wanker? God knows I'd love to. Love to jus' forget it all. To give in. To lose myself in you. To _let_ myself be loved by you." He slammed disdainful fists against the stone. "But I can't. I won' ever. Understand that? Not when I see what it does to you. What you do to yourself. Look at you. We're out 'ere to save the bloody world, an' you use your ten minutes to-" 

The hurt in her gaze had vanished, replaced with stony determination. In the next instant, her own demon emerged with a terrific growl, and the fire behind his storm died. It was so easy to forget...so easy... 

"Look at me?" the Slayer repeated incredulously. "_Look at me?!_ Yes, _Will_, why don't you look at me? Here I am. Vampire Buffy. Killer of the bad. Lover of the bad. Don't you see it doesn't _matter_ anymore? What I want or what you think I want. And yeah - I screwed up. I'm still screwing up, and I'll continue screwing up until you give me the answer you're just _dying_ to give. I've looked the other way every minute since you came back into my life because it was important to me. More so than the sake of the world, of all humanity. You are important to me. And I _can't_ do this without knowing that in the end, there's something to fight for." The tears were back again, and he could not stand that. With desperation, William attempted to look away but she again grabbed his chin and forced him to her eyes. "I need a reason to live out this stupid sentence. I can't pull off forever by myself." 

Then she kissed him - hot, fiery, and completely unexpected. Her fangs clashed with his, tearing at his tongue, tasting his ardor without reaching its poetic root. When he moaned, he knew he was lost. There was nothing left. With desperation, he pressed into her, returning everything she gave with a thousand times the strength. It was gone, all of it. Anything he had tried to reserve, any reason for staying away. The coldness of her skin affected him in a way he never thought possible, and the implications only prompted him onward. He tasted the coppery tang of his own blood as she gashed a cut in his lip, and didn't care. His hands were lost in her hair, his mouth insistent in its attentions as the heat radiating from two cold bodies brought his southern parts to sudden awareness. 

Buffy broke away with a gasp when she felt his arousal brushing the sensitivity between her legs, and the gasp melted into a whimper as she pushed herself into him. Slowly, she slid from game face, hands clasping around his neck as his mouth found her throat, teasing skin with the pointed ends of her incisors. He cupped a breast and played with it gently - too gently - and she emitted another groan before she reached for him, stroking the notable bulge desperate to burst through persistent denim. 

William gasped and drew away, the blood on his lips tasting of both his and her essence. "Stop," he pleaded, not at all convincingly. His hand was still occupied with a mound of clothed flesh that he couldn't stop stroking. It was painful recognition of useless ebbing that finally persuaded him to pull away. After all, if he couldn't stop, why should she? 

It was impossible to fight for words when there was no conceivable reason to fight for air. "Why?" 

And at that moment, her inquiry struck his attention as a rather noteworthy objection. Yes, why? He couldn't think of any grand reason. Not then. Right at that time, there was not a care in the world. Not when she was grounding herself against him. Not after waiting this long. Not after what she had lost, what he had inadvertently gained, and what they had to face before the night was over. 

So William shrugged and lowered his mouth to hers, pressing against her in renewed spirit, no longer willing to fight. His hand went back to her breast, clutching possessively, pulling at her nipple through her shirt. Their hips rocked together in a frenzied dry-hump, and before he knew what was happening, she had reached between them and fumbled his zipper open. No time for extensive foreplay. Whatever they did had to be now. He returned the favor with zealous insistence, spreading her as she allowed him to slip between her legs. With the tip of him brushing against familiar wetness, it was then that the reason returned. The one reason. Angel's voice and instruction. The curse. The curse. The horrible, awful, bloody curse! 

With a frantic cry, he pulled away, and his body suffered the physical repercussions. A pain stretched every sexual nerve with throbbing perseverance, but he denied himself gratification. 

Buffy was breathing harshly and tears were falling down her cheeks once more. 

"Oh luv," William gasped. "'m sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't. We can't. It's..." 

"What? WHAT WHAT WHAT?!" 

"The curse, Sweetness," he replied somberly. "No chances. I dunno what did it for Peaches besides the obvious, but I can't risk it. Not if..." He couldn't talk. Couldn't bear it. She was crying. 

With restraint, he approached her again, touching her face even as she scorned and pulled away. It was not out of anger, he recognized; rather shame at her own shortcoming. The intolerable hurt of physical negligence. He wanted to make it better but didn't know how. 

Wearily, he rested his forehead against hers. "What can I do, luv?" 

Again, she shied from him, reacting to his touch as one would react to fire. It was not like the Slayer to get embarrassed about such things. After all they had shared, this was only another stone to move. Another obstacle to face. When he finally earned her eyes, and she saw the candor behind his passion, her body softened like warm candle wax. Her answer formed reluctantly, barely above a whisper. "Touch me." 

"Buffy-" 

"I'll warn you if I feel myself getting too happy, okay?" she spat, though her tone lacked conviction. William frowned expressively and caressed her face with curled fingers. "But I can't...fight like this..." 

"I know." And he did. Gently, he lowered his free hand between her thighs, skin on skin, and slipped one finger inside. 

Buffy moaned and arched against the tombstone. "Oh...God..." 

He pressed against her tightly, brushing a kiss against her temple. With steady rhythm, he pumped her, slowly but earnestly, another finger sliding into her warmth. And another. And another. Warmth. Hard to believe she could still be warm, but she was, whether by willpower or his overly active imagination. 

There was no heartbeat, no racing pulse, but by George, she _felt_ alive. 

In a few steady minutes, she came softly. Bucking, her back arched and when her mouth opened to cry out, he covered her lips with his, swallowing it whole. And she released that rapture. There in his hand - four fingers within her. He shushed her with tender attention, nipping at her mouth as he withdrew from her, eliciting a small sound of complaint. The world didn't spun, but he hadn't thought it would. Watching her affectionately, he neared and kissed her again, the final calming of a weathered storm. Buffy pulled away with a satisfied hum of fresh air, adjusted herself, and took a minute to watch in fascination as he licked his hand clean. 

"An' yet another similarity between myself an' my former," William jested, voice clouded with emotion. "I still love that taste." 

She smiled, then frowned and glanced down. "Ummm...Spike?" 

"Don' worry 'bout it, luv. I got two hands. You got a world to save." 

"Don't you mean 'we'? Stupid Master can't start the damn ceremony without me. At least let me return the favor." 

She reached for him, but he pulled away, caressing the back of her hands with his thumbs. 

"You'll make it up to me. Really, luv, 's rude to keep 'im waitin'. Not that I particularly care or..." When she offered a suggestive smile, he couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, don'. 'Sides, I think your ten minutes are up." 

At that, Buffy chuckled, grasping his hand with renewed conviction. "Well, fine. Let's go kill this thing so I can make it up to you." 

"Luv-" 

"I know. Happy Buffy equals Homicidal Buffy. I was there, I remember the drill. You, on the other hand, don't have that clause." 

He perked a brow and spoke before thinking. He couldn't help it. "You wish I did at times, I'll bet." 

"Good God! You infuriating prick. Get over it. I love you." 

William smiled, but his heart wasn't in it. "I know." 

*~*~*

The atmosphere on Revello Drive had not alleviated beyond a state of continuous apprehension since the three vampires departed. Dawn had planted herself in front of the television upstairs, refusing to answer anyone's inquiry and shunning the few attempts at communication made by concerned friends. She turned the volume up to drown out the sound of her crying. 

Giles, Willow, and Xander remained downstairs, not speaking and busying themselves with idle activities. Anticipation hung over the roof as a cloud waiting for the right moment to release its storm. The clock above the mantle ticked with aggravating persistence, announcing the new hour so sharply that every chime, no matter how foreseeable, made everyone in convenient proximity jump. 

An hour and a half into the endless wait the doorbell rang. It was one of those cruelly normal moments suspended to the degree that the sound was hardly recognizable. Only when Dawn's thundering down the stairs reverberated through the walls did Willow jump to her feet to beat her there. They nearly collided in the foyer, struggling over each other in a series of grunts before the Witch gained possession of the doorknob. 

It was Anya. 

She blinked in surprise, scrutinizing the crest-fallen slump of the young Summers girl's shoulders. "I didn't think anyone knew I was coming." 

"They don't," Willow replied, ushering her inward. 

"Will!" Xander called from the living room. "Who is it?" 

The vengeance demon flashed a sweet smile as she entered, mechanically drawing off her coat and placing it over the nearest hanger. "Hello, sweetie," she greeted, voice dripping with disdain. "And Giles. Hello Giles." 

Neither answered her. Everyone was aiming questioning glances in Willow's direction. 

"She wants to help," the Witch said with a shrug. "I called her right after Buffy left." 

"And she's just now getting here?" 

Anya shrugged simply. "I was in Cambodia, punishing this guy who cheated on his wife. Turned him into an artichoke." She made a face. "Then watched the wife eat him. Willow caught me on my cell." Proudly, she held up her new toy in a shows-man-like demonstration. "It's very handy when you're constantly traveling about the world." At the sea of unimpressed expressions that answered her, she pursed her lips and put the phone away. "Well, that's not really important. So what can I do?" 

Willow heaved a breath and grabbed her jacket off the coat rack. "You can stay here, as the only other magically inclined person I know, other than Amy." She took a minute to shudder her discontent. 

"Technically, I'm not _magically_ inclined. If you'd like me to reek vengeance-" 

There was a grumble. "I mean...if something happened that required...argh." She sighed heavily and shook her head. "You know what I mean." 

"Wait, wait, wait," Xander said, stepping forward. "In so many ways, I'm not loving where this is going. You have the appearance of someone who is about to leave. Are my eyes deceiving me?" 

"I'm going to find them," the Witch replied simply. "I did a locater spell about a half hour ago." 

"No!" Dawn cried. "You can't! You'll get yourself hurt, or-" 

Giles frowned and intervened. "When did you do a spell? You've been in here all-" 

"When I went to the bathroom." She took a minute to look sheepish. "What? It's not like either of you are really comfortable with the idea that 'Oh, Willow's using magic. Here comes the apocalypse.' All the more to go out there." 

"Damn straight," Xander practically yelped. "Will, they know what they're doing out there. You could get yourself killed." 

A shadow crossed her face. "Or I could really help. Ever think about that? Here I am - all magicky, and everyone's on eggshells thinking of all the harm I could do. Let's not forget the good. Tara..." She paused with difficulty. "Tara once told me that magic used for good...well, it's not harmful. I don't do it all the time now. I hardly do it at all. The entire 'not noticing' of you guys these past four years should be evidence enough. I. Need. To. Do. This. We're sitting ducks here. Well, I'm a sitting duck with a warhead, and I intend to use it." 

A pained look crossed Harris's face, and all intent fell from his features as the demand in his voice averted to plead. "Willow, you're my best friend. You and Buffy...I can't stand the thought of both of you out there." 

At that, she softened. "I know. I know. But...think, Xander. What if the Master is able to open the gate? What if..." A sigh of resolution. "Buffy's lost interest in saving the world. I get that. After doing it so many times, that would be a hazard. But that's no reason for the rest of us to get that way. I have to...I have to be there-" 

"No!" he returned sharply. "Don't _even_ finish that sentence, because I know where it's going. No. You _can't_. Not..." 

"Are you volunteering, then?" 

Anya's brows perked and she glanced to Giles in confusion. "Did I miss something?" 

"The Master...this, vampire Buffy is facing intends to open the Gate of Abraxas," the Watcher replied tiredly. Disapproval was written across his face, but he seemed too fatigued to contest Willow's decision. 

"The Gate of Abraxas?" she repeated, stunned. Everyone looked to her sharply. "Not good. Not good. Definitely not good." 

Xander stepped forward and grasped her arm. "You've heard of it?...all right, dumb question. But...you've heard of it?" 

Anya glanced down. "It was opened once before. Only for a few minutes. Someone managed to throw themselves into the opening and seal it before too many demons could escape." 

The Witch blinked in astonishment. "You were there?" 

"Business." 

"As always," Xander murmured. 

"It was a long time ago," the vengeance demon continued. "Before the last Ascension, if memory serves." 

Giles released a long breath. "Then it was by the first Master. Why wouldn't the Watcher's Diaries have-" 

"Because everyone who was there to see it kinda went mad," Anya replied. "I mean, every human. Everyone who wasn't used to seeing something so horrible. A lot of the Watchers were there, anyway. Eliminated by the Gate. Those who weren't either lost memory of it or went completely loopy." 

"If it opens..." Willow said softly. "Will everyone there...Spike and Angel...will they go mad, too?" 

"Not likely. They're demons. They're used to seeing...demonic things." Anya heaved a breath. "Just like me. I saw it and I'm remarkably stable." 

Xander coughed loudly. 

Dawn hadn't spoken for several minutes, and her eyes were carefully trained on the carpet design. "What about Buffy?" she asked softly, not looking up. "Will she go mad, too?" 

No one knew exactly what to say for a long minute. 

Willow took the first shot, clearing her throat sympathetically as she stepped forward, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Hon," she replied gently. "If the Gate opens, it's because she..." 

Irritation surged through the girl's voice, and her muscles tightened with fury when she moved out of reach. "I know. Because she was used. I was down here when the entire 'I'm going to die...again' speech was given. But...Buffy never just...dies. Sure, she did once. But she's here now. There'd be something to bring her back." 

"No, Dawnie," the Witch said gently. "If your sister goes now, she won't come back. She shouldn't have come back at all." The weight of guilty burden wore heavily in her voice. "And if the Gate opens, someone has to be there to close it." 

It grew so deathly quiet that a plane could have crashed outside and no one would have noticed. 

"No!" Xander finally erupted. "Willow, no. I can't...not you. Not both of you! I won't let you. No, let me go." 

"No. I'm going. End of story." A powerfully pathetic look overwhelmed his features, and she felt her heart go out to him with all its infuriating predictability. "Listen, I can help. Really help. I can use all sorts of magic tricks that this guy'll never see coming. And if he does, he better watch out for Hurricane Willow. We all know how pretty that scene is. I'll give the Master a run for his money, but someone has to be there in case. Just in case." She heaved a breath of lasting conviction. "And I'm that someone." 

"You shouldn't go by yourself," Giles said. There was no want of objection in his tone - rather a lasting grasp of the ever-painful conclusion. 

"Buffy's going to be pissed enough to see me," Willow observed. "Imagine what would happen if everyone turned up. She'd get distracted. Really distracted. With me...Spike's there. He-" 

"And again with Spike," Xander murmured. 

"Listen." It was Anya, holding up her hands as if to initiate a peace treaty in the midst of an unmentioned battleground. "Everyone needs to calm down. She's right, Xander. Someone needs to be there in case the worst happens." She turned to Willow. "This is not saying I'm in support of you going psycho on us again, but I do know that you're the best shot to stop this thing. Buffy was turned. She was beaten. She's stronger now, but she could be beaten again. You need to be there." 

The Witch nodded, fastening her jacket and moving for the door. "I will be. I know where to go." She looked to Xander for a sign of further objection, but he had none to offer. "I'll be careful." 

"Yes. We'll stay here and play Scrabble until you get back." Anya turned back to the group. "Dawn, want to go get the board?" 

No one was paying attention. Just as the Witch was nearly out of sight, Harris jumped forward and lurched the door open. "Will?" he said meekly. 

She turned to him from the walkway, immersed in shadows. She looked so far away. "Yeah?" 

"I love you." 

A poignant smile crossed her face. Why was it that saying had such a finale to it? Her insides engulfed in sadness and the feeling of loss yet to be recognized. All at once she was lost. This was the end and there would be no return. And unaware that only a mile away their words were being echoed by two of the people she cared for most in the world, Willow nodded. "I know."   



	31. Abraxas

**Chapter Thirty**   
  


Angel was familiar enough with the scent to recognize it when it wafted in his direction. For the slightest instant, he furrowed with irritation and the same lackluster feeling of disappointment. Within the next few seconds, his childe and the Slayer appeared, side-by-side, hands linked. The expression on Buffy's face was distant but not at all unreadable. It was only minimally comforting to see William looking somewhat sheepish. Hiding things, especially personal matters, was rather difficult when one possessed elevated sensors. Every vampire in convenient propinquity would know that someone got at least somewhat lucky tonight. 

Pointedly, he arched his brows when they reached him. "It's amazing what you can accomplish in ten minutes, isn't it?" 

Buffy smiled lightly. "Well, I'm feeling... mostly better." 

"About dying?" 

"No. Living." She glanced at the platinum vampire at her side, whose gaze was studiously trained on the earth. "This eternity thing... it sucks royally, but I think I'll manage." 

William told a different story simply with his reluctance to meet anyone's inquiring eyes. Even without a century of foreknowledge, Angel could have identified those mannerisms anywhere. Comfort, cold but needed comfort had tied her confidence with a semblance of normality. The thought occurred to him that if he wanted to ask, now would be the time, but for all his contempt, the older vampire could not lower himself to a plane of such bitter resentment. 

She was not his anymore, and she never would be again. 

Whatever had passed had fueled her adequately to fight the next battle. To brave the next confrontation. Angel consigned with disinclined appreciation that while he could easily fit Spike's protocol on the back of a postage stamp, William was a surprisingly collected individual. Thoughtful and always acting only after giving the specified matter serious consideration. Their conversation several nights ago only proved that unique quality. At that moment, he envied Giles in having had the privilege of getting to know his childe so thoroughly. The momentous surprises delivered through everyday transaction would be notably easier to tolerate had one had several years experience. Yet, the evidence compiled still to let no one forget the demon aspect of William's true persona. Spike without being Spike. William while acting the parts of both. William by _being_ both. 

This was not the time for such reflection. 

Angel cleared his throat. "Are you ready?" 

"As ready as I'll ever be," the Slayer replied. 

"We're 'ere, luv," the platinum vampire assured her. 

"I know," she replied. There was new resolution behind her voice. Strength and raw determination. The elder vampire glanced again at the couple's clasped hands. It was as if she drew power simply from him being there. The promise - however empty - that the fight had meaning. That there was a reason to see the dawn of a new day. 

It was wise that William did not meet her eyes. His sullied expression told a much different story. 

"Did that break give your mind time to clear?" Angel asked the platinum blond, trying without succeeding to bite back any remnants of lingering derision. "Want to point us in the right direction?" 

"Uhh... right." He glanced upward and gestured to the right with a nod. "Over there. There oughta be a tunnel behind one of 'em headstones. Looks deceiving, but 's really not concealed all that well. Bit an' I climbed outta it. I 'ad to wait, o'course. It was all sunny out." 

Buffy drew in a tight breath and squeezed his hand so fiercely that any normal man would suffer from lack of circulation. "Then let's go. Get this over with." 

"You'll do fine, pet." 

A vague shadow of a smile flitted across her face. "We don't know that. I-" 

Something was running for them, and the atmosphere automatically tensed. It was an odd moment - one of recognition beyond three vampires who could detect such a factor from substantial distances. Angel concluded within the next instant that it was no one to fear, and was about to speak up when William announced, "'S Red. She's-" 

"Here." The Witch turned the bend around a patch of bushes, then keeled forward and rested her palms on her knees. Her body looked asymmetrical due to a heavy package on her back. "Thank God I caught you. I was going to write a complaint to the Magic Box if the herbs I used were too old. Of course, Anya-" 

"Will!" Buffy hissed with an emphatic step forward. "What the hell are you doing here?" 

"For one thing, giving you this." She slid the abandoned crossbow off her shoulder and practically thrust it into the Slayer's hands. "You're slipping, girl. Forgetting valuable toys." She paused and cracked before anyone could rouse, as though stressed under heavy interrogation. "Oh fine! I forgot it, too. But hey! My job is not weaponry girl. I figured you could use it. That, and I'm... ummm..." She coughed. "Coming with you." 

"Says _who?_" 

"Says me. I decided about two seconds after you left." The Witch heaved a breath and avoided the Slayer's accusing eyes. "What? You get to save the world all the time; let the other Scoobies have a chance once in a while." 

Buffy was not amused. A cold draft shuddered through her body - arctic to the scale of giving Sunnydale its second snowfall in recorded history. "Go home, Willow. I don't have time for this. I can't just... fight this guy and worry about-" 

"Then why the hell are these guys coming?" her friend snapped, gesturing demonstratively with her left arm. "Do I really need to spell it out for you? I'm pretty damn powerful, here. I can help. I really can. Just as much if not more than Angel and Spike. Besides..." At that, her tone dropped in degrees. "Someone should be there... in case..." 

"NO!" The Slayer and William yelled simultaneously. Then they started barking reason after reason to counter her logic until realizing they were screaming the same points. 

Angel stared at them, having not caught a word but knew enough to decipher the meaning. All Willow could do was grin. 

"Red," the platinum vampire continued before the silence became too distracting. "Shame on you. You oughta know 'f it comes down to that, the last thing I'll let you do is jump through the bloody Gate." When her eyes narrowed at him, he shrugged sheepishly at his own manifest concern and cleared his throat. "Peaches'll go firs', naturally. Then me. Then, 'f that doesn' work... so long world. You can't jus' give up your life like that." 

"What? And it's fine for her to?" the Witch retorted bitterly. "Come on, you guys! It's the truth, and you know it. Someone should be there in preparation for the big 'what if'. I'm that someone. Live and let live. You can't talk me out of this." 

Buffy shrugged and drew an arm back. "No, but I can knock you out of it." 

The reaction was instantaneous. Willow's hand shot forward, cracking with small bolts of electricity as her eyes flared in warning. "I don't think so. You can use me, and you know it." 

The Slayer froze, nodded, and relaxed. Concern was mapped in her gaze. "That's what I'm afraid of," she confessed. "Well, that and the other. We spent so much time trying to... what if you can't come back from it? Again?" 

The Witch rolled her eyes. "I _never_ came back from it, Buffy," she retorted. "Get it? You just thought I did. Everyone just thought I did. Hell, even Giles just thought I did. But I didn't. I didn't practice actively or anything, but the person I talked to in London told me it would be dangerous as hell for me to give it all up. I need magic the way vamps need blood. Believe me, I worried about that for a long time, too. A really long time. I worried so you wouldn't have to. I have control over myself." 

"I promised 'er, too," William said softly. "Promised 'er I wouldn't let 'er fall. Don' aim to spoil that." He didn't look at the Slayer, even as she trained her wide eyes on him. "You understand, Red, that I'll fight to the bloody end. Us 'ere are dead. Don' particularly fancy dyin' again, but I will 'f you try to do somethin' stupid an' heroic like sacrifice yourself. Understand?" 

Willow smiled a half-smile. "You sentimental fool." 

"'Ey. I watch out for my women." 

Angel grinned. "That's why all of them end up either crazy or dead." 

Everyone frowned and glanced at him irritably. 

"What? I was joking! Someone had to say it." 

"You right bastard," his childe snarled. "It was you who screwed up Dru's bloody mind. And don' you dare-" 

"Spike. Down boy." Buffy stepped between them before the verbal stings turned physical. "It's fine. He was just kidding." 

It was absolutely adorable to see that vampire pout. Even the lesbian couldn't help but swoon. "Bloody prat," he growled. "I swear, Peaches. You get more annoyin' each day. One sec you're tellin' me how we're gonna be best pals, the next you're makin' me wanna rip your soddin' head off." 

"All right, Mr. Sensitive," Willow said, taking his arm with a chuckle. "Enough. Don't we have a world to save? Where is this place?" 

The Slayer started to object, but Angel held up a hand. "She's coming. We're just wasting time out here. Personally, I'd think having a witch on our side isn't a bad idea." 

"Fine." A note of finality struck in Buffy's speech. "Fine. Let's just go. We can't afford to sit here all night." She used her grip on William's other hand to pull him in the indicated direction, inadvertently dragging Willow along with her. 

"Human chain, luv," the peroxide vampire gasped as he stumbled at her side. 

"Not as much human," Angel corrected, walking calmly behind them, "as it is a chain." 

"Still... pet! Pet! 'S over there. You might wanna slow down a bit." 

Buffy stopped without ceremony, nearly initiating a domino reaction. "There's no point in being quiet about this," she decided. "He knows we're coming. He knows I'm here." 

Willow went rigid. "How can you tell?" 

"Sire thing, luv," William answered. 

"Are you guys ready?" 

"Ready's not a strong enough word," Angel replied. A stake was coiled firmly in his grasp. 

The Slayer released her hold and loaded an arrow into the crossbow. "Listen... you guys are just here to help. Don't do something stupid like try to interfere. Don't distract me. This is between me and him." Her gaze centered on the peroxide vampire. "You got me?" 

He shrugged. "No can do. You know what I told you." 

There was no want of negotiation in her eyes. "Will, you're going to stay out of my way, or so help me, I will dust you." It was an empty threat, of course, and while he knew it, a shudder still ran in affect. She had not so much as voiced such a disposition since he first returned. 

Even still, his expression hardened. "You might be stubborn as a mule, Slayer, but you're in there with the champ. Nothin's gonna harm you 'f I can help it." 

"Fight later!" Willow growled. "Come on. Let's go kick some vampire booty." 

All three paused and shot her a pointed look. 

"..._evil_ vampire booty." 

The journey through the tunnels William had used in his escape days earlier was longer than before. Anticipation clouded every minute. While nerves were on edge and everyone had an opinion just aching to be voiced, not a word was shared. At times, the peroxide vampire felt compelled to warn his colleagues that the expedition had consumed a good chunk of day, but knew such confirmation was unneeded. They would get there when they got there. No verbal trade could shorten or lengthen the trek. 

Hours could pass and they would not know the difference. 

Light, weak as it was, but light nonetheless, shone vaguely at the end of the passageway. Buffy quickened her quest, pressing forward with haste. By the time he and the rest could catch her, she had already fired three arrows into the pit where she lost her life. A look of grim declaration possessed her features. A finale that knew no fear. 

"So much for a surprise attack," Willow murmured. 

"This wasn't about surprise," Angel whispered back. The statement was obvious but hearing it spoken was oddly comforting. 

The Slayer disappeared over the alcove, skidding to a stand in the main holding area. From there, the frame of the Gate of Abraxas was visible. Aligned in pig entrails that seemingly stood on their own accord. Behind it was the cavern wall, creating a deceptively innocent optical illusion. A flash of magic burst from behind, seizing three vamps that were running for her. Soon Willow had joined her. Then William. Then Angel. The number of vampire cronies wasn't vast but considerable enough to keep them occupied for a few minutes. 

But only minutes. 

Three arrows soared toward her waiting frame. With fluent ease, she dropped to the ground, eying one of the assailants and firing. To her left, Willow had strained several under her influence, and used that period to draw the enemy through. Heaving in a breath, the Slayer raced forward, dropping in mid-stride and rolling toward a cluster of the Master's followers. While on the ground, she withdrew two arrows and, without lodging them into the crossbow, dug one into the first's back. The vampire exploded in a whirl of dust before she got to see his face. Jumping up, she produced a stake from seemingly nowhere and slashed across the second's face, blinding him as she fastened it in his chest. 

Sensing movement behind her, Buffy back-flipped, reaching for another stake lodged in the safety of her duster. Another detonation of dust. Three others raced for her. The Slayer swung her crossbow into grasp and shot two down with no difficulty. The third knocked the weapon to the ground and lunged forward, spear pointed at her stomach. She dropped to all fours, bringing her adversary with her, claiming the staff in the fall. 

Suddenly, there was silence. Buffy found herself very much alone - in the centerfold of the Initiative's former cavity. The allies fighting beside her only moments before had disappeared. Panic shot up her spine, but her spider-sense was fast to react. They were all right. They were near. They were... 

The Slayer turned around. 

William, Angel, and Willow were befuddled - trapped behind an unseen barrier. She opened her mouth but no sound came out. What had happened was beyond understanding. Buffy stood at the mouth of the Gate. Anyone unrelated was barred from participation. 

"Luv!" the platinum vampire cried desperately. 

"I'll be fine." The words were barely above a whisper. She had no thought if he had heard her. She had barely heard herself. And yet she did not repeat her sentiments. This was it, and she was to face the shadows alone. 

"Be just and fear not," she murmured to herself. 

Nothing about this was just and there was everything to fear. But Buffy was not afraid. 

There had never been darkness like this. The sort of menacing black that wasn't black at all. Beams of light burst from every turn, every corner, every angle of free air, and yet that was not enough. Piles of dust scratched at her feet, the lost weapons of the would-be warriors that had stood there just seconds before rattled across the metallic floor. It was then she realized, in the heat of battle, she had vamped uncontrollably. Her ridges were sharp and still unfamiliar, and yet in a calling so like herself that she could not deny her nature any more than she could deny her family. 

The Slayer did not live here anymore. 

The Gate was there. In the midst of the carnage, it remained unaffected. Sealed and devastatingly innocent in common appearance. A most formidable foe: that which looked harmless. Pig entrails outlined the entry, repulsively fresh, though the scent did little to make her flinch. And from behind the dormant portal door stood the object of her search. The Master - Geryon - watching her with his menacingly red eyes. Red eyes that were cold, still. Red eyes that defeated the fire. He, too, was surrounded in darkness. 

It wasn't the falling vampiric dust that encouraged her. No, Buffy had seen more than enough of that. Giles had taught her long ago that no matter how powerful the girl was; there was always a final battle. A lifetime ago, on his knees outside the Bronze, Spike had told her the same. And she had feared it. She feared it in pushing the sword through Angel's abdomen, sending him to his debatably deserved sentence. She feared it in leaping into Glory's portal. Feared it a thousand times over when trusting herself in the arms of a vampire that could not love. Feared what it would do to her when she became that vampire. 

But she feared none of that now. Now when there was nothing to lose and everything to gain. Not with William standing behind her. Not with Dawn at home. Not with Willow, cackling with energy, just waiting for a chance to strike. No, she feared nothing. There was her and there was him. Slayer versus vampire, as it was supposed to be. Fear had no place here. 

She was lost in darkness while standing in a pool of light. 

As he came forward, the darkness formed a protective veil around broad, aged shoulders. Then he began to talk - that voice so eerily confident, drawn and soft-spoken that it was almost easy to forget in whose company she currently found herself. Almost... but not quite. "Very impressive," Geryon hissed. "I'm sure you had no illusions that avarice could become so enticingly addictive." 

"And I'm sure you gave no thought to the consequences of siring a slayer with friends," Buffy retorted, stepping forward on her own accord. And yet, she felt alone. Felt those with her slipping beyond her reach. She still refused to be afraid. "It pisses people off." 

"Don't worry," the Master crooned. "They cannot reach us now." He stepped aside and motioned at the Gate of Abraxas, and she felt the validity of his threat course through her system without any further provocation. The Gate was quiescent but that didn't mean its power had not already begun to exercise authority. She was within its circle, now. Its territory. No, Abraxas would not allow any foreigners into the loop. 

She only hoped the others knew enough to stay back. 

"I'll admit," Geryon said, minutes later, circling her as though sizing her up. His prey. His sacrifice. "I had not considered the possibility of your redemption so quickly. Your ties to this world are strong. Annoyingly supported on a structure of fortitude. But that is behind you now, Ms. Summers. There is only one exit from the Gate." 

Buffy's brows perked. "Killing you?" 

"Foolish sentiment." The Master offered a long, throaty chuckle. "And despite outstanding evidence, still unseeingly confident." 

"As fun as it is trading jives back and forth, I'd rather get to the part where I gut you." Her face was stony and resolute, incisors bared in some form of vampiric instinct. The return of new strength flushed through stealthy muscles. Distantly, she heard Willow scream out to her and immediately closed her mind off. There could be no interference. Despite trepidations, the Witch knew that. 

Spreading his hands to show he was unarmed, Geryon flashed a patronizing smile. "Very well. Then let's get on with it." 

The crossbow she had fired with such reliability was lost on the other side of the border. Beyond reach, unlike the spear at her feet. A small - the smallest - part of her nagged that it was unsportsmanlike to fight with a weapon if her opponent carried none. Damn lingering ethics, rational or not. Without drawing her gaze from his, she kicked the staff into her hands, gripping the wood with ferocious potency. Her eyes flashed dangerously in warning, but it only humored him. 

"You are feistier than I remember," the Master quipped. 

"Short-term memory?" Buffy retorted, nearing. The staff ached to be twirled, used in a dance, to bring the monster to his end. 

Geryon adapted a vestige of stillness, waiting, calm. With presumed innocence, the gleam in his eyes flickered in disdainful courtesy. It occurred to her then that he truly did not believe she intended to fight. That she would forfeit for the nature of her extreme and throw herself to the Gate. Bring about the end on her own terms. The thought was preposterous, but his demeanor did not betray a wilful inkling of error. Buffy supposed in the years of his personal studies, he had never experienced a good-to-honest shock. Perhaps that was because, similarly, never had he faced an opponent of equal or superior strength. The residual power connecting them, as sire and childe, drew a bond tight and constrictive. Indeed, she did feel the link, but it was not constructed on fidelity. There was no time like the present to shock the hell out of your maker. As he ensued their endless stare down, the Slayer wavered and shattered her role in etiquette. She curled the staff in grasp and lunged for him, skillful arch of the bow slicing in perfection at his midsection. 

Ah. Blessed disclosure. The ball bounced free of any court, and she was determined to call dibs. 

The Master, reeling in surprise, was thrown on his back, though he did not remain immobile long. Just as quickly, he flipped back to self-awareness, eyes imploring her with wondrous, even impressed stamina. 

"That took nerve, Ms. Summers." 

"Really? I could've sworn it took two hands." 

The second attack was as swift as it was physical. Geryon found himself kicked to the ground again, and recovered quicker than before. By now, he was beyond prepared. The bemused tenor had vacated his expression. Blackness. He was furious. Anger coursed through every fiber, empowering her almost immediately to a frighteningly unexplored level. Buffy felt it stretch through their connection, but refused to shy. Rather than intimidate her, it fueled her with the promise of power. Yes, she had the power now. It was beyond the stretches of her control, and she felt the last strand of etiquette within her snap. 

The animal root of his coming finally emerged. A side she felt more than familiar with, even if they had never been acquainted. In an instant, she twirled the spear up once more, blocking the downward ambush of the Master's empowered forearms. She kicked a leg out and locked her ankle behind his, bringing him once more to the ground with an earth-shattering thud. It rang sweet melody to worn ears. 

"Oh, what's wrong?" Buffy snickered, foot pinning him to the ground. "You see: this is why you shouldn't sire slayers. Tends to piss them off. And a sired-pissed-off-slayer definitely has the advantage over-" 

The Master growled and kicked upward, sending her across the room to the unseen barrier guarding her from escape, or assistance. Distantly, she heard the shouts of her loved ones scream direction, but it was fruitless trying to listen. Though it was impossible for a vampire to become winded, she gasped for air, an ache harboring in dead lungs. 

"Note to self," she murmured irately. "Less talk, more kill." 

Before she could manage to her feet, Geryon was above her, a snicker firm on his face. Her staff - lost while airborne - was now in his possession. With a sorrowful tsk, he pressed the pointed end teasingly over her heart, but they both knew he would not strike. Not while he needed her. 

"You see where that avarice has led you, Ms. Summers?" he spat bitingly, pressuring the skin above her heart and eliciting what he desired - a long moan of agony. "Yes. Know the feel, _Slayer_. You do it so well. It brought you here, didn't it? The skillful art of slaying." 

She heard William roaring his outrage, struggling ineffectually to push the invisible barrier aside. Her inner will begged to call out to him, but she could not find her voice. 

And the Master was still talking. "Ah, ah. There. You see? Even now, when faced with eternity, with death, with the weight of the world riding on your pathetic shoulders, you reach to the source of your avarice. Your hanging and self-destruction. Such silly attributes, these emotions are. Candor is a backstabbing fiend. It fills you with bliss but turns on you when you need it the most. When the Gate is opened, perhaps you will understand that. Perhaps when you lose that conscience, comprehension will fill you instead. Perhaps when you are biting into those you love, you'll feel the surge of truth that has been void throughout your existence. Perhaps when you rip your dear little sister's throat out, and taste the essence of your precious Slayer bloodline, you will know what blunt authority means." 

That was it. That was all the prompt she required. With a fantastic roar, Buffy grasped the end of the spear and thrust it back at him, striking his chest mere centimeters away from the heart. And then it wasn't the heart she was aiming for. Her nature demanded blood. Her fire-worn nerves: a pit of endless rage growing within an otherwise small structure that could not possibly control such an overload. Brief panic fluttered at such an honest loss of control, but she released it along with every fleeting principle ever instructed on a hot summers day. There was simply nothing. 

Nothing. 

The Slayer roared and charged, yanking the staff away. It was consigned to the ground with a tremulous clatter, and her fangs snapped with malevolent intent. And she lunged, growling her fury, teeth digging into the aging flesh at the Master's throat. She tore. She pulled. She bit off more than she could chew. Black blood sprayed her face, but she didn't care. The monster within her released at last - released to its full, horrible potential. At once, the worn cries of her friends ceased in place of unabridged horror. But she could not pause. Could not reflect. She dug and strained, not caring if it was giving him what he wanted, not caring of what it made her. 

Not caring, not caring. 

Finally, Buffy pulled back with a gasp, the taste of dead blood running dry in her mouth. Her nerves screamed and raged for more, but she restrained, forcing herself to regain some strain of dignity. It lasted only a second, and everything crashed. Outrage flooded and poured, and her stamina dissolved. She didn't know that she was crying until she gasped for a taste of unneeded air. The hands of a monster throttled the Master. He was not dead, but he was not moving. Not smirking. Not jesting. Not laughing. Not doing anything. 

But he was not dead. And she was the monster in his place. Never had she felt so powerless. 

So power_ful_. 

So _terrified_. Darkness had finally claimed her, and she was terrified. 

Something stirred beneath her. She felt blood on her mouth and had to fight the disgusting impulse to lick it up. 

"There she is." Geryon's eyes had opened, fading in power but dancing as vividly as ever. The dance of victory. "There's the Slayer I created." 

It snapped, and it wasn't coming back. Buffy bid a discreet farewell to everything that had made her anything and lunged again. And then she was a mixture of bites and scratches, tasting blood on her tongue. Lapping enthusiastically. Her nails dug into a sea of soft skin. Tearing him limb from limb, and even that wasn't enough. With an animalesque roar that couldn't have possibly torn from her throat, she stood and pulled him upward alongside her. His body was as light as a feather. She did not know whether he was alive or dead, and she didn't care. 

It was over. That was all that mattered. She would consider the consequences later. The trials to suffer for her own brutality. The cost of penance. 

But for now, she had to dispose the Master. With a thrifty heave, Buffy thrust him through the Gate and watched it swallow him whole. 

There was no reaction at first. Nothing except the silence from which she was birthed. Drying blood crusted around her mouth, her chest heaving needless gulps of sin-stained air. Realization inevitably swept over her, but she had no idea how long she had been standing there. The Master was gone. The Gate was closed. 

And she was a monster. 

"BUFFY!" 

She was what he had wanted. Beyond the Gate. Beyond the hurt. In destroying him, she had destroyed herself. She had become the thing. The demon. The vampire. 

"BUFFY!" 

It was over. 

Two strong arms tugged at her from behind, pulling her sharply to a protective chest, cradling her like a lost child. How she wanted to collapse. To fall. To let him coddle her for the next millennia. The Slayer closed her eyes tightly, tears still passing sturdy barriers. William held her against him, hushing her, whispering that all would be all right now. The fight was over. The Master was dead. 

Terrible power flourished within her cavity. But what was left in his place? 

It was then that the Gate of Abraxas hummed to life. 

Buffy stopped dead in her tracks and felt the chest of her loved one shudder against her back. Drying blood caked her lip, and she felt every nerve in her body scream in anguish in one glorious whim. Without waiting for him to guide her, she turned to face her undoing. 

It wasn't about making decisions. It was never about decisions. Grim reality struck at its finest hour. Realization of what she was. Realization of what she had become. Realization of what there was to do. No tempting fate. No screaming her frustration. There was nothing left. 

How quickly revelations could change. How much had to be sacrificed for the sake of well-being? When would she be allowed rest? 

Never. She knew well enough to understand that. After all that, the Master had been correct. Avarice had brought her here. Avarice that led to self-destruction. The cause and finish for everything that occurred on this silly little planet. A beginning and an end. 

It certainly was over. 

"It's... no... it's..." Willow stuttered, eyes filling with tears. "How?" 

That answer was there as well. An understanding she grasped, even if others could not. "The Master," Buffy replied dispassionately. "He fed off me. His blood and mine combined. That opened the Gate." She pulled free of William's hold and began the pace forward. "_I made my own home be my gallows_." With assent, she turned and looked at them over her shoulder. "I have to go now." 

"No!" the Witch screamed. "Giles said... no, Buffy. It's me! It's my turn! I-" 

It was William who got the final say - incongruously without speaking at all. He was already halfway there by the time the Slayer gauged his actions. That alone snapped her out of any pivotal state of near-catatonia and flushed her muscles with warning and frustration. "SPIKE!" she shrieked. "NO! You can't!" Then she was running, faster of the two, and met him just as the Gate fell into reach. 

By the time Willow had plundered to join, it was too late. Angel seized her by the shoulders and whirled her around, forcing her to the floor as a wave of blinding light stretched through the cavern. It was impossible to know who reached the portal first; both were gone when the quakes finally subsided. A crackle of pallid electricity seared through the entry of the Gate, closing in conclusiveness. The Witch wrenched herself free of the vampire's hold and fell to her knees, sobs commanding her body. Her companion collapsed beside her, aching to console but having nothing but grief to offer. 

And that was it. The grotto fell still all for the sounds of their mingled sorrow. Static cracked and soared, fading in potency as the last was drawn into a mocking breed of calm. 

Neither were looking when she came back through. 

Silent footsteps carried her across the coarse ground, her eyes flickering once before fading to nothingness. The body in her arms was limp and unconscious. When Willow glanced up, she swore that Buffy was floating. Pangs of relieved joy consumed her in the second before she caught the look on her face. A bland nonexistence, concocted of ruthless empathy. Completely void of humanity in any form. 

"Angel," her trembling voice managed to croak. She did not look at him as astonishment clouded his features. The Witch could not tear her eyes away. 

The Slayer did not react. Did not look at them. Did nothing but walk away at the same slow pace with William cradled protectively in her arms. 

Self-destruction. 


	32. Porphyria

Author's Note:  The events in this chapter are inspired by _Porphyria's Lover, _a poem by Robert Browning.  For those not familiar with the work, it can be found here: http://www.whysanity.net/creative/browning.html.  Also, Buffy quotes Dante's first sonnet from _La Vita Nova._  I might also point out that this chapter was written several months ago, when I stumbled across the aforementioned poem and decided it would be a unique play into the story. Chapter Thirty-One 

The air smelled of rain and carried the tenor of chamber music.  Calming, deceptive sounds of pleasant repose.  It strived for the sensationalism of normality—serene and quiet.  However, after a century of experience, he knew not to place faith based on sensory.  Eyes were deceiving; scents were unreliable, and sound—ah, sound.  Sound was the worst of all. A menacing opponent—it threw itself at walls while scampering down empty corridors, whispered false promises and distorted to shape itself as forbidden hungers, coaxing the impotent to hear what they desired.  

Every fiber of his being stretched with pain, prompting him to scream in torment before lasting recollections came searing back.  A flash of blinding white and it was over.  Over…he was falling.  Falling before he could be sacrificed.  Falling before he could be saved.

The Gate of Abraxas had opened.  He had raced to close it.  He had failed.

His eyes squeezed shut, bidding the world away.  Against black pits, he saw her lunge first, battling him with superior strength and speed.  Winning against his deepest wishes.  But they had both disappeared into the portal.  He remembered falling.  

_All right, _he thought.  _I hurt enough to know I'm still undead.  The…_  William glanced upward, fighting to see something he recognized.  The scene was blurry against his eyes, but the scent was so achingly familiar, a sharp pain sprang tightly across his chest.  Old and abandoned—the crypt of his past.  The crypt he had occupied what felt like centuries ago.  Where they had shared intimacy after intimacy.  The same Riley had detonated the day she told him it was over.  

Buffy.  Where was she?  He tried to sit up but pain drew him back.  If he had survived, she was alive as well.  Willow and Angel would have taken him elsewhere.  Something…

Giles's words came back to haunt him.  _The Gate will only close with a sacrifice of pure psyche…_ _Abraxas seems to think that justifies the means. It would, of course, kill the carrier—but that is the material point. Something horrible retracted in exchange for something good._

At that, his eyes widened.  Pure psyche?  Did that mean…

He tested his resolve, forcing his mind to the darkest hour his demon had ever conjured.  It was a path he never wished to see again.  A plane he could not avoid.  The thought of her squirming, kicking, screaming beneath him as he heard only what he wanted to hear.  Saw only what would give him release.

A sharp pain engulfed his chest, and William expelled a jagged, agonized breath.  No.  The conscience was still there.  The guilt.  The suffering.

That meant…

Something significant fell within him.  It was then he knew.  Then that he understood.  

She was gone.

It had hurt him before.  Once upon a time, six years ago, when her voice filled his black heart with empty promises, false desires and misguided demands.  His sight had betrayed him more than once.  For what seemed like a lifetime, he thought he saw her as receptive.  That his own could be repaid.  Sweet retribution for the anguish his fallen heart forced him to endure.

Everything was different now.  He had wronged her in the past; there was no doubt, but never without punishment.  There toward the end, he found himself abused for repressions he could not have possibly initiated.  Hated with such seething rage one minute and ignored the next.  She had hurt him so many times.  All thrust and parry.  Kick and punch.  Snap and pull.  

The evidence was irrefutable.  She had led him here.  She had fueled his holy crusade.  She had given him life after taking it so many times.  She provided the reason to animate his useless lungs.  Over and over again, she had gone to him to die.  And despite her silent pleas that screamed for the release of inward torment, _he _was the one who fell cold, who underwent her stare, her bitterness, her biting tongue.  Who knew how it felt to be hurt time and after time.  

William's eyes snapped shut and a sharp pain jittered up his spine.  In seconds she would enter, and he had not the strength to fight through the barriers and run. The voice housed deep within his cavity told him it was justified.  That whatever she threw at him was minimal compared to the pain he inflicted.  It was true on some level.  Despite her frenzied blows, he had bitten her back.  Every chance he got: a barb here, a reminder there, a punch when it didn't hurt so much.  

But she was his Buffy.  Loving her meant loving the hurt, the torment, the fire that raged despite numerous attempts to calm her screaming soul.  Time after time, he willingly threw himself onto the flame, and she had resented it.  Resented the evidence that a creature as dark as he could love where others in his place had proven it impossible a thousand times to their credit.

Everything was different now.  Now he had lost her behind the fire forever.  The silence whispered lies that he could have prevented it.  Regardless of how incapacitated he was, if he had truly made an effort, neither one of them would be here.  Instead, he had stood there—confined by spiritual resistance and will battling his darker nature—as breath was stolen from her body, her essence vacating to make way for a new sort of evil.  A being he couldn't comprehend with powers he would never have.  And it wanted justice.  It wanted _his _head on a platter.  Notwithstanding the knowledge that he deserved all of what was to come, every rational nerve in his body screamed that this was his last chance.  There was time now—he could writhe and struggle and try to escape, but his weakened potency betrayed his will.  There was nothing to do.  Nothing to do but wait. 

An ache harboring in his chest begged for a second futile gulp of air.  With every useless intake, her scent lingered nearer.  He knew she was coming and hated that he was powerless to prevent it.  That he would lie here like the lapdog she had modeled him in to.  The consistent _it's not really her, it's not __really __her _played through his mind fruitlessly.  Whether it was her or not, he knew he would not lift a finger to harm a golden hair on her head.  He was here forever. Through good or bad, willingly doomed to endure the best of times and the worst of times.  He would remain.  To protect and watch after her, after her sister, to do _anything_ she asked of him.

He had done this to her.  It hadn't been his doing, his siring, but he was responsible.  

After so many years committing atrocities with a song in his heart, to reflect the events accumulating the past decade with remorse struck as dark and unnatural.  He had killed before—so had she.  And that was the way it was, and the way he had accepted it.  The inconvenience a conscience ruined the fun of plain and simple madness.  And yet here he was.  He would have killed to keep himself from falling behind the lines of tedium once, a time that did not seem so long ago.  He had tried to kill her more times than he could count.  

Things had been so basic then.  Enemies were not supposed to love each other, but there was a sense of poetic beauty to the philosophy.  The wisdom hidden by his willful ignorance screamed that life was simply that—hurting because you love.  Hurting the ones you love _because_ you love them.  The simplest motives in history reduced to one conclusion. And here they were.  They had bled together, wept together, fought together; exchanged hate, sarcasm, hurt and turmoil, kisses, love, and the promise that someday this crazy world might make sense.  

It didn't.  He was still here.  Waiting to die again.  Waiting for the minute that _would be _his final death.

Eyesight was returning but he didn't want to glance around.  The room was home to him, or had been long ago.  They had shared much in here—the atmosphere was her essence.  He could smell it from a mile away.  In those years apart, he thought of nothing else.  The thrill of home was overrated.  He had longed to return to this place with every fiber of his being, and it had all been in vain.  Though blame for the recent turn of events could in no way be discarded at his feet, William could not escape the feeling of liability.  The scorn of the deepest sort of guilt.  

_You hurt me to make yourself feel better, _he reflected, unsure where such meditations originated.  Thoughts running through his mind were so aged that he had long ago thought them dead and buried.  With a futile sigh, he attempted to flicker his wrist, a finger, an eyelid, _anything _that would confirm his lingering willpower to move.  Anything to encourage him to bound to his feet and run.  Now.  Now.  Run now.  While the chance was still alive.  

William scoffed.  His chest heaved with motion and sent a wave of pain crashing through his body.  _Bloody hell.  Nix the entire escaping idea.  Neither of us are alive…the chance might as well die, too._

A second wave overpowered him with heartbreaking awareness. The alien feel of inward torment shuddered through his broken body.  Pain!  Four years later, and he was still unaccustomed to the disclaimer the infliction of pain came with.  Buy this one, kiddies.  Side effects sold separately.It made him shiver to think he had at some point enjoyed this.  A lifetime ago.  Spike had been perverse.  He had loved pain, fed off it.  Every punch seemed to satisfy more than hurt.  Amazing that so many things could change with simple consciousness.  Love.  Loving her was the most agonizing experience of his existence, but he welcomed it.  Welcomed everything that loving her meant, even if she could never voice the return of his sentiments.  Despite the moments of tenderness they had shared in the past, the confession of love buried within his throat fueled her rage, pumped through her like blood.  He was a monster, after all.  A shell of a man, and it was conventional knowledge that such creatures could not love.

He had loved, despite reasoning and logicality, and that changed everything.

She was coming.  

That was all knowledge would allow.  Not with the wind and tide that crashed behind the door.  Soon she would enter, and all would change.  He would see her for the first time since he allowed her to die.  Really see her.  The thing she was made to become.  Cold.  So cold.  William was no stranger to it.  Long ago his ability to differentiate the tone of separate seasons had abandoned him.  Winter and summer were one in the same.  That changed the first time he touched her skin and absorbed its warmth—alive—and he knew life would never be the same.  Every day of his existence thereafter was a mocking attempt to reclaim what he lost.

What he lost was about to walk through that door.  What he lost had once been pure; it was now a dark, evil thing.  A reason his heart would have squealed in delight once upon a time, if only to find a mate as black as he.  The layers of kindness he had often seen trapped behind her eyes would be replaced with empty nothingness of the worst sort.  Nothingness could still hold something.  Even nothing was something, in most respects.  Not so with her.  She had fallen in the worst of ways, and there had been no one to catch her—try as he had.

But she was coming now, and he could not avoid her.  He would have to look into those eyes, those black pits of nothingness and know he created it.  That he brought her to that lowly state, one way or another.

_If I hadn't come back, if I hadn't come back…_

The mantra was growing old.  Rationality fought for a break.  True, he did have a significant role in her transformation, but it wasn't by returning.  He had watched her die once and couldn't bear the chance of it happening again.  So he had protected her, fought with her, loved her, hurt her and left when it became unbearable.  Now he was back and she was gone again, only this time lost where no one could reach her.  

And she was coming.

A breeze flittered.  Small, nearly indistinguishable, but existent.  It carried only two meanings; someone was coming or leaving.  The stillness of the sepulcher was disturbed, and he braced himself.

The affect of her actual entrance, though, was overwhelmingly reassuring.  He knew her face anywhere, could identify it through a multitude of hundreds, could feel her eyes piercing him with that all-familiar glower.  That was her face, all right.  The face he had sketched a thousand times, had etched painfully tight in the back of his mind.  The naked eye would never be able to decipher the difference; it took one who had been there to see beyond the fine print and through the lines.  He saw, and his discovery sent roars of thunderous relief through his body.  It wore her face, maneuvered in her body, spoke in her tongue, might act, portray, even feel the frontage of the woman he loved—but this was not his Slayer.  

It was the eyes that gave it away.  The eyes and her body language.  The way she moved as though she wanted him, without second thoughts, hesitation, or remorse.  Regardless of what had happened, what screams and confessions she had plundered, she had never looked at him like that.  A sense of abandonment crackled behind her vacant gaze.  Her soul that stank of such nobility—amidst confusion—was gone.  Killed?  Perhaps.  She had died so many times; her spirit must have finally departed as well. 

Grief overpowered him first, but it was short-lived.  The image he had been dreading was standing before in the center of the room, mimicking him with her face, but it wasn't her.

_It wasn't her._

That thought alone coaxed him from the pivotal edge of reasoning.  It wasn't her.  Whatever it was, it was the thing that killed her.  This idle beast was no threat.  He had to _see.  _He had to see to gather the strength for what had to be done next.  For what had to be finished; for his redemption and her release.  William exerted a breath.  He had to kill her.

Again.

Candlelight accented her skin with enchanting neutrality.  Like she had so many times before, she flushed when she saw him.  It was distracting; she wasn't supposed to flush now.  The vestige made her look too alive for comfort, and he had to keep himself convinced that she was gone.  Such a game was used to distract the weak-minded and those who saw only with their hearts without firstly considering the consequences.  William was used to that; doing before he allowed his mind to catch up with him and scream, _THAT'S PROBABLY NOT A GOOD IDEA!  _He could not afford to lose his wits now.  She depended on him.  She needed him.  Needed him to be strong.

Needed him to kill her.

Like a predator seeking its prey, she stalked toward him, eyes blazing briefly with the sense that was so comfortingly _not_ her that he had to suppress a sad grin of recognition.  It would not do well to burst into tears.  

His face was set in a glare to which she did not react.  Instead, she circled the bed attentively, eyes never leaving him though his gaze stubbornly refused to abandon the incessant stare of straight ahead.  Not a shudder ran through him, not a beat rippled across his skin.  Much to his controlled surprise, he was steady in reaction, knowing a slip could set him back in the game.  He was already too far behind to tread additional barriers.       

Then she was behind him, prodding his face with hers, studying him as she ran her hand arms length across his shoulders, not eliciting even a sigh.  A whimper.  Nothing to acknowledge her presence.  There she stood in silence, considering.  He imagined her head tilted coyly to the left as her teeth gnawed thoughtfully on her lower lip.  The picture tickled his mouth with a grin before he bade it away.  No, no.  Not Buffy, he had to remind himself.  That was a Buffy-characteristic.  The person behind him was not Buffy.

He decided to call her Porphyria.  If she was not Buffy, she did not deserve her name. 

Finally she completed her circle, moving to stand in front of him once more; a breathtaking vision of death.  When she saw his response had not alternated, she grinned at last, crossing her arms in that wonderfully familiar patronizing fashion.  "Hello, lover," she said.

An inward flinch exercised his pain.  He did not respond—just stared ahead.

A visible fraction of distaste creased her brow.  Silence would not do.  With a sigh of air that was just as useless to her as it was to him, she sizzled forward, tempting his eyes to drop from hers, but he would not look away.  And so in silence they stared.  Power versus power.  His previously sated muscles began to writhe.

When she could wait no longer, Porphyria scowled and began the final approach.  On all fours, she climbed toward him, a slow, cat-like death march.  She crawled over his languorous form until only a breath separated them, clearly displeased when she still received no reaction.  With intent, she tried once more, emanating a steady breath onto his lips.  He did not so much as blink.  Growling, she set herself aside, claiming the cold spot beside him, kneading his collarbone with her nearest hand.

The iciness of her touch did him in.  At last, she was awarded her coveted response—eyes glimmering like birthstones of avarice.  The inner rational lodged within his cavity began to scream that he was losing again.  Losing all semblance of control, if he had ever possessed it.  No, no, he couldn't allow himself—but he did.  It was inevitable.  He felt her smile against his skin, persuading an arm to encircle her waist as her head found purchase against his shoulder.  

Golden locks of hair tickled his senses, and he thought he was lost.  William snapped his eyes shut to find the haven he had established for himself, but it was gone.  All that was left was her.

"So silent," she cooed.  "Don't you see?  All is better now.  Everything is as it should be."

_No, luv.  Don'—_

_"He woke her then, and trembling and obedient she ate that burning heart out of his hand.  Weeping, I saw her then depart from me."  _The creature batted her eyes at him, another useless refrain to beguile.  "Not departing here, lover.  Isn't it time that I eat your burning heart?  Hmmm?  I will.  Then you can stop _pretending to live."  _    

She knew. Bitter reality. The battle was over before it began.  Porphyria raised her head as her arms encircled his, reversing their positions so he was cradled, however unwillingly, in her embrace.  Tenderness.  The false façade of tenderness.  Never in life, never in their time together—at least not until the end.  It was easy to lose his sense of awareness, but the voice was persistent in its accusations.

_Not real!  Not real!  False face!_

Destructive cycle.  He had to break free.  Then she was speaking to him, her voice heavenly as her body reverberated against his cheek.  He let his eyes drift closed again, arm wrapped around her side unwittingly drawing her nearer.  As he melted into her, she brought a hand to stroke his own golden hair.  A wave through—he had never known such softness.  The illusion of what he had striven for all those years ago was with him now, whispering things he once would have killed to hear her say.  Once but not now.  Now all it brought was pain.

"You waited so long, didn't you?" she murmured.  "To hear me say it?"

William's eyes opened wide and he again attempted to struggle, exertions made in vain as she shushed him and brought him back to her shoulder.  No good—this was no good.  No good could ever come from this.  If he thought he was behind before, there was no way he could win the game now.   Not without destroying himself along with her.

It was elegiac in that sense.  The inner poet rejoiced.  Finally, something to break the years of silence.  Something worth writing about.

"Shhh," Porphyria encouraged disarmingly, stroking his hair with everlasting compassion, however untrue.  For a fleeting moment, the play seemed better than reality.  "I'll say it now.  You need to hear it once more.  I'll make everything right again."

_No no no no no!  Unmask!  Unmask!_

When he attempted to fight again, when he sat up to look away, her strength overpowered him.  She grasped his head and forced him to look at her—into those soulless eyes that were not Buffy.  Into the face of the thing that killed her.  The thing that used her voice now to make toddle things in her favor.

Damned if he let her—

"I love you."

The single utterance of the over spoken phrase should not have done him in, but it did.  William's body quivered with release and he sank forward.  Never before had she said it with such liberation.  True, he had heard her voice the confession over and over since his return; releasing her burden with a heavy heart, as though she should be punished for her lack of insight and misplaced judgment.  It was honest, of course.  He had wronged her and she him, and they had known anything above hatred would only lead them into the fire.  Yet they had persisted anyway, as the stubborn always do.  At the time, he had been certain that they could subdue anything that stood in their way.  They both had beaten death.  

It hadn't been too long ago that she first professed her long-concealed feelings.  When he returned and she found him, and they spoke at length about the past.  About everything that had occurred before his departure.  They had debated over the scorn, the fear, the angst, the heartache, the mistakes, the wounds that hurt still, even after so many years.  And then, Buffy had turned her eyes downward before they could glaze over in tears.   

_"I bring up the past for a reason," _she had said. _"It reminds me of all the things I've done.  The good and the…very bad.  And every time I think of you, I know that I…I was too selfish.  You gave me the fire back, and even though it was what I asked for, I hated you because of it.  I was scared, and I ran, and I hurt you because I was hurting myself."  _Buffy had paused meaningfully, a single tear of solidarity skidding down her cheek.  _"I loved you then…and I still do…and I hate myself for it.  I shouldn't…love you, I mean.  After everything you've done, what I've done to _you.  _You hurt me so much, but I still love you."  _A stomp of her left foot as she yielded to frustration._"Why?__  It shouldn't be like this.  And I hate it!  I hate that I can't stop.  I hate—"  _And she broke down, sobbing into her hands as he offered her the comfort of an embrace, avoiding a similar outburst with futility.  

He remembered what he had thought, and it was as true then as it was now.  If there wasn't blood, there would be tears.

Such emotion had wracked her tone.  Love was supposed to draw people together, not drive them apart.  And still, the roller coaster rides he had endured in the past proved none to the contrary.  Love was a lie; a joke they made for the movies.  An intangible being that people spent their lifetimes trying to achieve; reaching, grasping, even touching from time to time, but never owning.  Never holding.  Unconditional love was nonexistent in his experience.  His misplaced faith in the destructive cycle had allowed his overly broken heart to be used again and again…

And still, here she was, saying things she could not possibly mean.  Uttering her confession as a release and not a prison.  It had never given her pleasure.  When she was at his side, all she could feel was sharp pains of self-disgust and remorse.  And though it pained him, William had to see beyond what he wanted and what was true.  The woman curled beside him might look and speak like her, but it wasn't.  Once upon a time, he was accused of being in love with pain.  He had been; perhaps he still was.  He could have her now if he wanted, but he didn't.  He didn't want her because it wasn't _her.  _This…Porphyria wasn't the Slayer, no matter how well she had dressed up for the role and rehearsed her lines.  It wasn't Buffy.

William exerted a breath as his body finally defeated its ailment, leaping beyond the bound.  Then he was up, wrenching free from her grasp as he turned to look at her, muscles flexing as the strength returned.  The face that was Porphyria looked back, smiled her deceptive smile, and leaned invitingly into the pillows.  

The image made him growl, and the fire within exploded.  Furiously, he lunged for her, taking a fistful of golden hair and wrapping it thrice around her throat.  Her hands went to his wrists, and her superior potency might have succeeded in prying him away had he not straddled her waist, eyes gleaming with dangerous objective.  An animalesque gaze he had not issued anyone in what felt like centuries burned his eyes, pumping his long useless veins with something blacker than hate.  He had never before had the drive to kill as he did now.  Kills in the past were committed quickly—without ceremony.  For convenience and survival, to pass the time and worn off boredom.  Now, he killed for release.  Porphyria had locked his beloved away, and he would fight until he won her back.

Hold on her hair firm and unwavering, he growled once more before he tugged.  He grasped and pulled, watching her writhe beneath him, the darkness of her pupils contradicting the tenderness he had felt not two minutes before.  Fleetingly, he supposed her gleam was supposed to intimidate him, but it only fueled his conviction.  She writhed, thrashing and kicking under his grasp, but he held resolutely with all his might.  The more she struggled, the more determined his tug became.  Cold hatred coursed through his trembling body, and he pored his rage, self-resent, and frustration into her.  Cutting her off her—killing Buffy's murderer in sweet reprisal.

When the last was coming, he jerked especially hard, tearing the slightest bit of scalp from her head as her muffled gasps subsided and her body collapsed, motionless.  The untamed glimmer in his eyes flashed dangerously.  "That's bloody right, bitch," he muttered bitterly.  "You let her go."

But the body beneath him did not respond.  Red marks stretched along her neck; whispers of a thousand little fingers that sucked her life away.  It was a sight he had seen often; had induced often; but the look was strange on her.  The frontage of being dead.  Lying there, breathless, pulseless, skin ivory white without blood rousing her cheeks.

It wasn't over.  William knew resignedly death could not stop her.  The past attempts were fruitless; there wasn't any reason that this time would be different.  With a sigh, he leaned forward wearily and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek.

"We'll make things right, luv," he promised idly, entwining a piece of hair around his forefinger.  "Somehow, we'll make things right."

For now, however, that was all he could do.  Porphyria was gone, and return as she might, there had to be hope for Buffy.  As the storm calmed, he rolled onto his back, bringing her with him.  His body commanded him to run, but there was nowhere to go.  Nowhere to hide. Strength, in every essence, had betrayed him.  There he clutched her for the remainder of the night, tightly, protectively.  He nuzzled her hair, rested his cheek against her crown, and waited for the night to stretch into day.

"Make things right," he murmured as he slipped from consciousness.  "Even if it kills me, pet, I'll find a way to make things right." 


	33. Interrogation

Chapter Thirty-Two

"What do you mean, she came and left?" Willow snapped stridently.  

"I mean, very simply," Giles replied, "that Buffy came by here, said there had been an accident, and was on her way."

"She was in and out in two seconds," Anya verified.  "Did something go badly?  She mentioned Spike was hurt."

Xander's brows arched.  "And from that cryptic message, you would never guess there was trouble.  She said something to _me _about the ritual…that it had taken Spike's soul away and that you two—"

A pained look overwhelmed Angel's features, and he had to grasp Willow's shoulder to maintain balance.  It was a poorly timed tactical move, as she chose that instant to keel forward in a fit of sickly comprehension.  "Oh God!" she gasped.

The vampire retained some restraint, straightening with a huff of composure.  "Something went wrong with the ceremony," he said.  "The Gate opened…Buffy opened it when she threw the Master into it."

Giles had paled significantly.  Disbelief shadowed his expression.  "The Master?"

"We weren't able to help!" Willow sobbed.  "I tried but she said it was…she _jumped through!  _I told her she shouldn't and she did anyway.  She and Spike…they raced for it and…I don't know who got there first."

"Buffy did," Angel whispered.  There was no denying his assumption; the look on his face was enough substantiation for anyone to read.  "She would not have said we were with her if it wasn't true.  She walked right passed us without even registering that we were there."

With every minute, the Watcher was becoming increasingly paranoid.  It was a wonder his glasses were still arched on his nose rather than relegated to the hem of his shirt.  No one had ever seen him more troubled.  "Then there was a serious miscalculation that I did not consider," he concluded in devastation.  "Buffy leapt through the Gate to close it?"

Willow sniffed and drew her arm across her eyes.  "Y-yes.  I _swear, _Giles, I tried…but she was too quick.  And Spike…he took off and she yelled at him and then they…they were both gone."

"In so many ways, I'm not loving the look on the G-Man's face," Xander said apprehensively.  "Buffy jumped into the Gate.  It's closed, I presume?"

Both the Witch and Angel nodded weakly.

"Where's Spike?"

"She carried him out," the vampire answered.  "The look on her face—"

"—like she was dead—"

"—she didn't know who she was, or where she was—"

"—I was afraid to say anything.  She looked as though—"

"The Gate of Abraxas tore her soul from her body," Giles murmured.  His voice was barely above a whisper, but the revelation echoed through the house with all its horrible conception.  "It should have killed her…but she was already dead.  The portal couldn't recognize that distinction."  It was a face the Watcher had never before worn.  Every spark of animation withered and died.  For long seconds, it appeared he would break down, but he did not.  His grief was beyond the expression of tears.  "Dear Lord…"

Anya frowned, unsettled beyond reproach but still maintaining a firm grasp on her stamina.  "Well…why didn't she come and kill us, then?  She appeared fine when she dropped by.  She—"

"The orb," Xander gasped, tears clouding his eyes.  "She took the orb.  Said Willow needed it for the curse."

The Watcher looked at him sharply.  "You gave it to her?" he snapped, but there was lack of conviction to support the indictment.  "You simply _handed _it over?"

"How was I supposed to know?!" the other cried.  "It was…it was Buffy!  She said she needed it and I gave it to her.  Just like you would've done.  Don't start pointing fingers at me!"

"He's right," Angel muttered.  "Any one of us would have done the same.  If Willow and I hadn't seen her for ourselves…"

Color was slowly returning to Giles's visage.  The same face of disbelief overwhelmed him, but the clockwork of his thought process was beginning to tick once more. "What about Will?  You say she carried him out?"

"He was unconscious," the Witch explained.  Her face was swollen red from crying.  "I guess the Gate knocked him out.  She was holding him and she carried him out."

The concern glowering through Anya's eyes became significantly more manifest.  "She…she wouldn't…hurt him…would she?"

All eyes fell on Angel.

The vampire sighed.  "The only vampire I knew…well, personally, who was sired by the Master was Darla.  She made me, and you guys know the story.  There were many things that she was…when I knew her.  Before…"

"Yes, before you impregnated her," Anya said.  "We understand that.  Go on."

He tossed her a dry look, but they lacked time for petty squabbling.  "She was a menace.  Just like any other vampire…only not.  She…she had the capacity for love that Spike had.  That Dru had.  That I—"

"Lacked?" Xander offered.

There was no denying that, but even still, Angel managed to appear somewhat hurt.  "Yes.  I'm not sure what to expect of…of Buffy.  She loved Spike, right?"

Harris nodded.  "For reasons beyond me."

This time, both Giles and Willow sent him a look that warned him to tone it down before they interjected verbally.  It was a message well received.

"Well, seeing as they share vampiric roots…she might have tried…" Angel shook his head.  "But she would have failed, from what I've seen of him.  Sp…erm…Will.  Whatever you call him these days…whatever he did, if he's regained conscious…it's been enough to keep him alive.  For now, at the very least."  Aggressively, he turned to Willow.  "Do you have any idea where she would have taken him?"

She shook her head, another onslaught of tears grasping her before she could speak.

"None at all?  Any place unique to…" The word was difficult to place for its implications, but that made it no less valid.  "Them?"

"Not that I can think of."

Angel rolled his eyes.  "Come on.  There has to be something!  When she and Spike were together—"

"Together in the sense of using him for sex?" Xander asked unhelpfully.

"I don't care _how _or in _what sense!" _he finally shouted, flustering in remnants of still-lingering embitterment.  It was an odd color on him, especially at such a moment. "Where would they go?"

"To his crypt."  The voice came from the top of the stairs, carrying with it much-craved ignorance and repression.  Dawn was finally emerging from her room, having once again bombarded herself inside after Willow left hours earlier.  "When Spike and Buffy were doing the funky monkey, I'd think the safest place for them to go would be his crypt."

Xander made a face of disgust.  "Ummm…yeah.  Having seriously revolting flashback here.  Remember when Buffy was inviso-girl?  I went to ask Spike if he had seen her and he was…" For a second, it appeared he really was going to be sick.  "He was…'exercising' on his bed."

"Exercise on his bed?  Who would…" Willow turned bright red and looked down.  "Oh.  I get it."    

The next question was the sort only Anya would have the gall to ask.  "What kind of exercises?" 

Harris arched a brow.  "Push-ups.  What did you think?"

"Well, he could have—"

"Really, Ahn!" He stepped back, covering his ears.  "That's the sort of question nobody expects you to answer!"

She frowned.  "Then it's stupid to ask."

"Enough talk about the sexcapades," Dawn stated, directing her gaze toward Giles.  "What's going on?  Why the group convo?  Where's Buffy?"

An ambush of uncomfortable looks were exchanged.

The look of mild disconcertion converted into full-blown distress.  The girl's eyes went wide and, without suggestion, tears started skating down her cheeks.  "What?  Is she…she…where's Spike?"

Willow stepped forward and tried to grasp her arm, but she pulled away with fervent force.  "Don't bullshit me!" the Summers girl cried.  "I don't want anything but the truth.  Where are they?"

"We don't know," Giles said, finally removing his glasses.  "Spike is alive, according to Angel.  He will know if something happens.  Your sister…"

"What?!" The shrill in Dawn's voice nearly breeched the sound barrier.  "Where _is _she?!  I deserve to know!"

"Buffy threw herself into the Gate," Anya said, earning a look of dissatisfaction from all angles.  In defense, she shrugged and raised her arms in defense.  "Good God!  In case you haven't noticed, the girl is a teenager.  It's not like she was raised on Care Bears and all those other warm fuzzies."

"Bunnies?" Willow suggested.

"WHERE?!"  The vengeance demon leapt a mile in the air.  When she noted the terrain was safely void of rabbits, she scowled at the Witch.  "Not funny.  Anyway, do you want me to tell her, or is one of you going to suck it up and do the adult thing?  I'll do it if—"

"The Gate?" Dawn repeated, anger giving way to straight shocked abandonment.  "Buffy threw herself into…the Gate?  But…I thought that was…she…"

"To close it, sweetie," Willow explained, drying her eyes.  If the matter was to be discussed with the young one, they had to gain composure of themselves.  It would not do well to express such a want of forsaken hope in front of her.  "The Master…well, he had your sister's blood in him.  When he went through, the Gate opened.  Buffy ran to close it.  She and Spike…they both went through."

Angel rapidly stepped forward and grasped the girl's shoulder before she lost balance.  For long minutes, they coached her to breathe and waited patiently for her to gain control.  If by will or incredible stamina, Dawn refrained from breaking down.  Her breathing fit seemed to be the worst of it.  When she was ready to hear more, she glanced pitifully to the Witch in silent encouragement to continue.

"They both came back through," she concluded.  "Buffy…she…she carried Spike out of there.  Then she left."

At that, the girl grew angry.  "What?  And you didn't follow her?  You didn't see if she was all right?  God, you heartless—"

"Dawn."  Giles this time—calm and collected, but still horribly shaken.  "Something…something went horribly wrong with the ritual.  Something that I should have…"

The reaction was instantaneous.  At once, her skin paled and her eyes went wide.  "What?"

"Buffy was able to close the Gate of Abraxas…but in retribution, it stole her goodness."

Realization struck, delayed and lingering in the shadows of denial.  Dawn took a step forward, trembling anticipation returning to her tone.  "Ummm…" she stuttered.  "In English please?"

"Since Buffy is a vampire, she is already dead," Angel explained.  "The Gate couldn't kill someone who's already dead.  Not with the way it took lives.  I'm suspecting it registered her as gone and stole her…her soul from her instead."     

That was it.  Dawn burst into tears and crumpled into a helpless heap on the ground.  Immediately, Willow, Giles, and Xander all went to comfort her, but she screamed and tore up the stairs.  Her thundering steps quaked through the house, and the slam of her door made the foundation shake.  What occurred in the solitude of her bedroom left little to the imagination—between gaps of silence, the sound of muffled sobs filtered down the corridor.

A few minutes were needed to regroup.

"I have no idea what to expect of a soulless Buffy," Angel said, stepping forward.  He grasped the railing on the staircase and squeezed so hard his already-pale skin whitened another shade.  "But a vampire with that sort of strength…I don't want to think of the consequences.  Spike's alive for now, but we can't bet how long her patience is going to last.  Once she tires of him or gets frustrated, she'll likely stake him or…or something equally unpleasant.  Wherever he is, we need to get him out of there.  As soon as possible."  

"I'll do another locater spell," Willow volunteered.  "But I need some more herbs.  I used most of my supplies during that last one."  She turned to Anya.  "Can you take me over to the Magic Box?"

The vengeance demon nodded.  "Sure.  We open at—"

"Now would be a good time!"

"Oh."  She took a minute to look inconvenienced, then shrugged.  "Fine.  Whatever.  But I want you to know this is strictly against store policy.  It's nearly—"

Xander rolled his eyes.  "Oh get on with it!" he snapped.  "We used to do it all the time!"  
  


_"Used to _being the operative phrase there, Harris," his former love replied contemptuously.  "If memory serves—"

"You two will have plenty of time to settle your issues later!" Giles intervened.  "In the meantime…Angel and I will visit the old crypt.  It's a dead-end, but it's better than nothing."

"What do you want me to do?" 

The Watcher looked Xander over cautiously and sighed in forlorn defeat.  "Do you think you could hex the house?  Make sure Buffy is uninvited?  Once she tires of Will, she will most definitely come here.  She will want to sever the ties to everything that ever made her—"

"Human," Angel whispered.  A look of cold remorse shadowed him for brief seconds, but he was well beyond the point of reliving his sacrament.  "I remember.  We better go."

Giles's gaze remained trained on Harris.  "Do you think you can do it?"

At his sheepish expression, Willow stepped forward and patted his shoulder encouragingly.  "You don't need to be a warlock to do it, Xan.  Just put the garlic and crucifixes up and say the incantation."

"We better take some crosses and stakes with us," Anya observed.  "You know…in case we see anything."

Angel glanced at the Watcher.  "You should, too.  Just…watch where aim those things."

Heaving a breath, Giles nodded.  "I concur…but be careful.  We don't want to stake Buffy.  There…" He turned to the vengeance demon.  "Do you carry any Orbs of Thesula at the Magic Box?  I'm not sure if they're still bought as paperweights.  If not, we'll have to order one from England."

"I haven't sold any in a while," she replied, "or had to mark them on inventory.  Truthfully, between managing that store and reaping vengeance across the world, I don't know where I get any time for myself.  I'll look.  Unless the shop's been raided or something…"

A still beat drew across the room.

"We better go," Willow said hurriedly, grasping Anya's arm.  

"Yes…us, too," Giles replied.  "Watch out, Xander.  And arm yourself."

With haste, both teams took off.  It was time to brave the night.

*~*~*

He awoke when the strain on his arms became unbearable.  It felt someone was trying to tear his limbs from their sockets.  The scent was different than he remembered.  Wisps of feather-like fiber dangled between his fingers.  William blinked once, then again, straightening his composure.  That initiated a chain reaction; every nerve in his worn body howled in pain.  Something rattled against stone and prompted his eyes open wide.

He was not where he had fallen asleep.  The long forgotten chains he had once imprisoned Buffy in were once again being put to good use.  William drew in a ragged breath, his eyes adjusting to the dark, vampiric or not.  He welcomed the dark.  

Such pain had not felt the plateaus of his physical existence since Glory wreaked fun during her torture session.  He did not care to see what marks were there in reminder.

Another breath was all it took, and all the memories flooded through.  William moaned aloud, his body straining to arch forward and held by the clasps that fastened each wrist.  The bolts held still as he knew they would.  He had not fashioned them in mind of an easy escape.  With cunning, he stilled once more in dim recognition that she was close.  Had to be close.  He wondered mutedly how long he had been asleep.  

"Very sloppy of you."  Porphyria's voice came from the shadows.  A mocking tone—completely void of any sentiment that might have harbored during their last exchange.  "Brave, of course, in that really…'I have a death wish, ask me how' kinda way.  My, my, Spike.  Are you slipping?  I would've thought even _you _would have the intelligence to—"

"Shove it, you right bitch," he snapped.  "Can't blame a fellow for gettin' a bit winded every now an' then."

"Oh, but lover, you _can't_ get winded.  You can't use any of those mediocre excuses.  I know what it tastes like, remember?"  Slowly, Porphyria emerged.  Not enough to truly engage the darkness, but he saw the outline of her form.  The physique and foreign twinkle buried within those sadistic eyes.  "I would've thought that _you, _of all the stupid vamps in this town, would have understood that.  After all we've shared.  After all you _put _me through."  Quietly, she advanced again.  He wasn't aware of her propinquity until her smell invaded his nostrils, her chest brushing against his.  "You finally got what you wanted, didn't you, Spikey?  Here I am.  A creature of the shadows.  I must say: your world fits very nicely.  I think I like it here."       

"I know well enough not to listen to a bloody word," William retorted, stretching forward, pushing into her in a silent ode that called her bluff.  "You may walk the walk, pet, but you're the furthest thing there is in this world from a decent rendition of the good Slayer Song.  They'll know when they see you."  

Porphyria grinned madly, leaning forward until her mouth brushed against his.  "Oh, but that's what makes it so sweet, my darling.  They didn't.  None of them.  Not even _Ripper, _if you can imagine that.  The big idiot!  I walked right up to him—"

The platinum vampire growled ferociously and strained forward, ignoring the pain that sprung up and down his side and tackled his shoulders with brutal merriment.  "'F you 'urt a one of 'em," he growled.  "I swear, by God…"

"Now we're talking!" She turned away from him gleefully, stepping again into the dark.  "I knew there had to be a little animal somewhere in you.  A stupid _soul _couldn't have driven it all out.  Let it go, Spike.  Imagine the _fun _we could have."

"Easier said than done, pet," William retorted, spitting a tasteful of his own blood to the floor.  "Not that I care a lick to help the likes of you."

A mocking tone filled her voice.  "Oh stop.  You'll hurt my feelings."

He strained again, pulling forward with useless effort.  "You let 'er go!  Stupid bint!"

"Why should I?  I like it here."  She prowled forward again, resting her hands on his chest.  Cold skin atop cold skin.  He shuddered in affect.  With a saucy grin, she licked her way up to his ear, and whispered alluringly, "Don't pretend you haven't always wished this would happen, Spike.  Think of the possibilities.  You could have me any way, anywhere you wanted.  We've earned this, don't you think?  Me with my stupid slaying and my stupid morals, and oh FUCK the world!"  Her eyes gleamed with sparks of insanity.  "And YOU!  With your pathetic penance.  With your blubbering every two seconds about 'Oh, I wish things were different.'  Like I wasn't a bitch in heat that didn't have it coming.  I—"   

William snarled and vamped, lunging his fangs for her and missing with a selective dodge.  She cackled when she saw him, her eyes shining like emeralds.  "You're not 'er," he snarled, fighting back the new desperation that struck.  He remembered how effortlessly she had placed him under her whim while enticed upstairs, and would be damned if that would happen again.  "You're not 'er, an' you know it.  Bloody wench.  Don' think they'll stop."

"What?  GILES?  The Brigade of all Do-Gooders Anonymous?"  Porphyria cackled.  "What can I say?  I gave them a chance.  A real chance.  Walked in there, right under their noses, and took away the only possible thing that could restore…well…anything."  

Even through the darkness, he could see the orb gleam as she held it up for examination.  Something black pierced his heart.  _Oh, luv, _he pleaded softly.  _'F she did what she's suggestin' she did, I hope to whatever it is up there that likes to see us muck up so bloody much that you never come back._

"I thought we would destroy it together," she continued, tossing her toy in the air casually.  "Of course, I thought a lot of things.  I thought I'd come in, have a pleasant talk, get you to see the light, if you pardon the phrase."  The flinging was become exceedingly careless, and he knew it was by intention.  Any minute now, she would allow Buffy's salvation to shatter.  "But, we both know how that turned out.  I suppose it was fair warning.  You did tell me that even if I was as stubborn as a mule, I was in there with the champ."     

"Jus' tell me, you halfwit," he hissed, struggling again with his bindings.  It was no use.  "Where are they?  What did you do to 'em?"

Porphyria frowned, ceased her play with the orb, and crossed her arms.  "This is really bothering you, isn't it?"

"You blind-sighted bitch!  Tell me!  I'll rip your soddin' throat out if—"

At that, humor leaked back into her eyes.  "Oh?  Is that right?  And what?  Bid farewell to every chance of seeing your precious Buffy again?  I don't think so.  You might think you're noble, Spike, now that you're bleeding-soul man.  We'll always know the truth.  I could tell you I killed every one of them, drained them dry, and used Dawnie's bones to pick my teeth, and you wouldn't harm one solitary hair on my head."

"I gotta handful of scalp 'ere to prove you wrong," he spat.  

She cackled in amusement.  "You old romantic.  You're out there, searching for your redemption like some pantywaist when there's real fun to be had."

"An' you're singin' an age-old song, luv," William replied.  "Learned it from me, you did.  'S no use, you bloody bitch.  It'll never work, this game you're tryin' to play.  An' if you 'ave harmed any of them, especially Red, Ripper, or the Bit, I'll tear you're bleeding head off."

Porphyria sneered and stepped forward once more.  "The People's Hero.  How very sad."

"What—"

"I'm not going to tell you, so you can stop asking.  Find a way out of here yourself, and you can see what's there.  Or what's not there."  Her brows arched in challenge as he growled in affect.  Unthreatened, she warmed up yet another pace.  "Or…if you play real nice, I'll undo your bindings for you and we can have a little fun.  Come on, you big baby.  You know you want to."  

William shook his head in desperation.  "You're not 'er.  You're not.  You never will be."

"What?  In the same way that _you're _not Spike?  Hah!  That's pathetic."  Porphyria was within reach again, and while he remained in game face, he did not attack.  Instead, he allowed her to stroke his cheek, his chin, follow her eyes down his chest until reaching for the apex that made them both gasp in a combination of painful pleasure.  "This certainly _feels _like Spike," she mused, squeezing him gently.  The peroxide vampire's eyes closed and he gritted his teeth together to keep from moaning.   His failure to verbally react only made her grasp him harder, and she leaned forward, nudging his throat with her nose.  "You _smell _like Spike.  The look, the voice.  Baby, you got it down.  Don't you see?"  Another firm squeeze.  He bit his tongue to distract himself.  "There is no William the Bloody without his soulless counterpart.  You would not be halfway as interesting if you weren't at least a part of him.  You would not _exist _without the other.  So there has to be…" Squeeze.  _"Has _to be a very…large…" she grinned as he caved, unable to withstand anymore, and glanced at his very ill-timed response.  "Part of you…that enjoys this a little too much.  That just wants to give in."

"Why should I?" he croaked.  "'E never would."

Porphyria arched a cynical brow.  "Normally, I would say to trust the source, but in this instance—"  

"You're _not _'er, you crazed bint," William cried with resolution, grasping control on his physical reaction and doing his damndest to reel it inward.  It didn't work, but it was worth a shot.  "All right…so as a soulless git, I'd prolly find this right entertainin'.  Might play it out for shits an' giggles. But I'd never _love _you.  You're not 'er.  An' whether I'm William or Spike, anyone who's not 'er jus' has shoes that 're too large to fill for your own good.  So sod off an' find yourself a new toy."

_"Love?" _she snapped, releasing him.  "Who says I want love?"

"Who says anyone'd want you?" he countered.  "You got your lines good an' memorized, pet.  But this town's full of chaps loyal to the Slayer.  An' once they find out about you an' 'er, an' angry mob'll chase you down.  Get staked good an' proper."

"Oh, Spike.  That's ridiculous.  Angry mobs are so dated.  Besides, this is California!  You talk a lot for someone who has nothing to say," Porphyria observed.  "You'll want to watch that.  We don't want to chance you getting yourself…hurt."  With that, she turned and melted again into the shadows, and he knew she was not returning.  "The night is young, Spikey, and I have a whole new lifestyle to get accustomed to.  I do hope you find something entertaining to do while I'm gone."  The sounds of her retreat stopped, and pause lent quietly in her tone.  "Oh…and while I'm thinking about it…"

It was expected, but that did not draw away the shock that raced up his spine when the orb hit the ground.  Even in the still dark, he watched it dance into a thousand sparkly pieces, clinking against cold ground before settling to its rest.

She was gone, then, without another word.  Dread pooled in the pit of his stomach, and before he could help himself, William was crying.  There with nothing but the silence to mock him.  Each tear represented a new cause.  The girl he didn't save.  The people he needed to protect.  The love he had lost, and feared would never again see.

_God, please, _he begged.  _Or whoever's up there that finds this so bloody amusin'. 'F you 'ave an inkling of mercy…let 'er 'ave been bluffing.  Please, let 'er 'ave been bluffing._

He waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming.  

There was nothing to do in the iron dark.  Nothing to do but wait.


	34. Needlework

**Chapter Thirty-Three**   
  


The past several years had schooled the Scoobies well into treading the shadows without fear come nightfall. Things that would ordinarily cause one to jump - the affects of what went bump in the night were lost. Not a cemetery in Sunnydale remained unmapped. The journey to Spike's old crypt was once made on a daily basis in the way back when, but covering the steps now, Giles felt the oddest rush of déjà vu. It was outside anything he had experienced before - grim and forewarning. Something dark spooled in the pit of his stomach, and shivers sprouted across his skin in response. 

If he noticed, Angel did not make mention of it. He paced faithfully at the Watcher's right, safely away from the assortment of crucifixes and vials of holy water stashed in a knapsack slung over the opposite shoulder. They had not exchanged dialogue since leaving Revello Drive; the slightest crackle was liable to betray their position to any meddlesome ears that might be nearby. 

However, after a while it became apparent that conversation was needed. There was no method to communicate the expression of shared confusion over obscure findings or the trade of thoughtful insights. In the end, it felt safe. The vampire's senses assured him that the Slayer was nowhere close. 

How this conveyed to Giles, neither knew. A similar wave of understanding overcame them when it was clear whatever danger lingered had temporarily lifted its vale. "Do you hear anything?" 

Angel paused thoughtfully in stride. "No," he reported several anticlimactic seconds later. "Though it's safe to say she was here earlier. She probably went out to hunt." It was discomfiting - talking about Buffy as if she was any mediocre vampire, but neither thought to mention it. Some things were best conveyed without words. 

"Willow and Anya?" There was no panic behind the statement - only general concern. 

"They're fine. For now. Anya has demon strength and Willow has proved more than once that she is capable of taking care of herself." 

The Watcher nodded, though he was clearly not convinced. "And Will?" he asked. When the vampire tossed a wry glance in his direction, he flustered and shrugged, advancing several spaces. "I'm sorry, I don't fully understand how your connection works. Try as we might, the Council has never...breeched that level of comprehension. There is more to vampirehood than even we credit, and I know this. I don't know enough, granted...I could not, and Lord knows I'm willing to learn more. But that is not the reason. I ask because he is my friend..." A sigh rolled off his shoulders. "Is there any way...can you feel when he is near? Is your connection that potent?" 

"Not exactly," Angel replied. "There's no way of telling how far away he is. But I do know he has been here." 

"How-" 

Discreetly, he pointed to his nose. "Spike was bleeding recently. I could smell it a mile away. Wherever Buffy was, she isn't anymore. If we're going to get him out, it has to be now. She'll be back." 

Giles did not need to be told twice. "His crypt...his old crypt was this way," he directed. "I don't know why she would have taken him there now-" 

"Well, where else would she go?" Angel countered logically. "Home? I don't think so. Whatever the Gate reduced her to, it obviously left enough...well...Buffy to recognize Spike as her...ummm..." 

"Mate?" the Watcher offered unhelpfully. 

A briefly pained look shadowed the vampire's features - one commanded by instinct rather than envy. "Oh," he said, attempting to sound casual. It was odd to hear a sporty tenor under conditions such as these. "He's claimed her?" 

"Claimed? Oh, good heavens, no. I meant in the...ummm...right." Giles reddened. It was almost refreshing, experiencing an emotion that did not coincide with downright sorrow and general terror for all humankind. "I'm sorry. I studied the patterns of vampiric claiming, of course, but I never-" 

"Made the connection?" Angel laughed, a tad uneasily. "Considering who you're talking about, I don't think I would have, either." 

That initiated an uncomfortable, albeit short silence for collection. 

"He loves her, you know," Giles said softly. "He loves her beyond the boundaries of conventional love. I know you...your relationship with her was one of the most torrid affairs I've ever witnessed, much less been a part of, however great or small. Without knowing, asking, or wanting. When he came here, he knew he could never have her. Not after...well, what happened. Whatever she's doing to him now...Buffy, or this thing in her place... Will, on some psychological level, will assume it is what's coming to him. Provoked, even deserved." A harsh breath of impatience hissed through the man's teeth, along with a fond sort of respect. "He never forgave himself." 

"He never should," the vampire replied. 

A rush of loyalty coursed Giles's veins, but before he could turn his annoyance into angry provocation, Angel held up a hand in ode for clarity. "I never forgave myself either," he continued. "For what I did...whether it was two hundred years ago, or what I did to you. You and the rest of the people I loved. I never forgave myself for that, and I never should. Just like Spike shouldn't for what he did to her." 

"Good Lord," the Watcher replied hotly, revealing more annoyed aggravation than he cared. "I can't believe this. My Slayer has been turned, and rather than discuss the repercussions of her state, we're having the very same tête-à-tête that concluded many an argument with Will. I will say this, Angel, and then we'll leave the matter at rest. What Spike did to her was unforgivable only to one person. He has yet to give himself pardon for his crime. To forgive is an act of compassion. And even so, what happened in the past in no way accounts for the amends he's made these past few years. Even this past month since we've returned." 

"You're singing his praises." A note of resentment swept through the vampire's voice. "But you never forgave me, did you? And I never expected you to." 

"Yes, I did." The revolution came soft, and while he could tell it was granted with surprise, it did little to hinder their journey. "I told Will as much...well...sometime during our early acquaintance. There have been horrible wrongs committed in the past that were not overlooked. I hated you for a long time, yes. But I forgave you. I forgave you when I finally understood the difference between you and Angelus. They are both a part of you, granted, and forever will be. Just like a very real part of William will always be Spike, regardless of how he wishes it were not so. You don't...understand these things until you've lived them. For all my schooling and knowledge and training, it has taken me an ungodly amount of time to depart the monster from the man. The trouble then was we had all known you as Angel, and it wasn't as if you were a friend we had lost never to get back. We saw the face of what killed you do...atrocious things...never differentiating you from the demon. With Will...I, at least, had time to get used to him...I knew. I had traveled that pathway before. The same with Buffy." A sigh coursed through his body. "We have every reason to believe she is going to do some powerful damage before we have a chance to set things right. I just hope we're not too late." 

There was nothing to say at first. Nothing to hear but the ground, soft beneath their feet as the old crypt came into view. Something that sounded vaguely like thanks rumbled out of Angel's throat, but Giles did not think to question him. Whatever answer was provided was and would always be enough. 

The sepulcher door creaked its memorable drone as the Watcher pushed it open. A few things were immediately in sight, but very few. Discarded lamps, cards, and furniture that had not seen an owner in years were scattered in general disarray across the floor. Cobwebs housed every corner, sprinkled with age-old dust. Nothing of aching familiarity struck on first glance. There was nothing to see or hear. 

Nothing that he could detect, at least. Angel took two steps inside, drew a deep breath inward, and concluded, "He's here. Is there a downstairs?" 

Giles could not find his voice; he was so overwhelmed with relief. A slightly giddy chuckle escaped his throat, dry and eager as he bolted in the indicated direction without thinking of offering a reply. 

The downstairs was dark but he knew it would be. At the time, it didn't matter if he slipped and broke his neck. Priorities first. He did not stop. Did not think. Did not even realize he had spoken until the echo of his beseeching, _"Will?"_ resounded heavily in his ears. 

A dry cough tittered in response. "Ripper?" 

Angel was advancing from behind. "Spike? You down there?" 

"An' Peaches! Praise Jehovah." Souled or not, it was beyond peculiar to hear that phrase in the rough and recognizable Cockney accent. "'S everyone all right? Everyone-" 

"Will? I can't see you." 

"'m over 'ere. Where the chains 're...'ey, I'm guessin' you din't come down 'ere often." It was true. Giles had avoided this place at all cost when he lived in Sunnydale. "She locked me up an' left. Went to go get herself a bite to eat." The same manifest reprieve coursing through the Watcher's system was evident in the platinum vampire's voice. "God, she gave me the biggest scare of my unlife. Makin' like she'd offed the lot of you." 

"The orb, Will." By then, Giles was beside him, attempting and failing to undo the bindings that held him secure at each wrist. "What did she do with the orb?" 

"Whaddya think? She destroyed it 's what she did. Oh, fer the love of...Ripper, you're gonna wear out your old mannish muscles. Get Peaches over 'ere." 

Never had the Watcher been happier to receive a hearty dose of good-natured invective. Nodding, he stepped aside and made room for Angel. A few tugs to loosen wore the bindings raw, and he was able to pull the younger vampire free. 

A long moan sounded through the lower level. William would have fallen had his grand-sire not been there to offer a shoulder of support. "Lord," he gasped. "'d forgotten how much that can 'urt." 

Angel arched a skeptical brow. "It never hurt you before." 

"I was never left chained up for hours at a time." 

More silence. The peroxide vampire cracked and offered a grin of concession. "Well, all those times it was at leas' 'alf way enjoyable. Dru knew how to make any unpleasant situation...well...wackier than it was s'posed to be." 

Giles helped him to the floor, reading the signs that demanded rest without having to see any. Even through the darkness, through the material that made up his shirt, the markings of physical abuse bled through with all their wondrous visibility. It looked to hurt like the dickens, but the most pain he had exhibited had sounded more like a sigh of relief rather than soreness. "What happened? What did she do?" 

"Question is 'what din't she do,'" William retorted bitterly. "I couldn't remember a thing when I firs' woke up. Then I saw where I was...an' it hit me." A somber note struck his voice. "She's gone. That...thing is in 'er place." He looked to the Watcher desperately. "It was the Gate, wasn't it? The Gate of Abraxas that took 'er soul away? It couldn't 'ave been anythin' else." 

"Then you don't really need confirmation, do you?" 

He sighed and shook his head. "No. Bloody hell, it should've been me." 

"Yes, it should have," Angel agreed stealthily. There was no venom behind his tone - rather blunt honesty that neither could help but appreciate. "I won't pretend to understand, but from all these accounts of you, it would have been better for everyone." A jest crept into his voice. "You humane vampire, you." 

William tossed him a poignant smirk. "You're one to talk, you nancy-boy-hair-gelled-poof." 

The elder vampire grinned. "Yeah, Giles. This one's going to be fine." 

"I coulda told yeh that." 

The Watcher took hold of the younger vampire's arm and pulled him to his feet. "As enjoyable as this is," he murmured, "we best be leaving." 

"I hear that. Where's Red? An' the Nibblet? Are they-" 

"Everyone's fine, Will." 

Angel sucked in one side of his cheek to bite back a sigh. "I can't believe this is happening." 

"You an' me both, Peaches." William glanced sharply to Giles. "Wha's bein' done? There 'as to be another Orb of...whatever 'round 'ere somewhere. At Demon-Girl's magic shop? We-" 

"They're looking now," the Watcher assured him. "Willow and Anya left when we did." 

"How'd you find me 'ere?" 

"Lucky guess, really," Angel replied. "I figured she would have taken you someplace special to the two of you." The peroxide vampire domed a brow in silent reminder of their rugged surroundings, prompting his grand-sire to continue, somewhat annoyed. "Well, we ruled out pretty much everywhere else." 

"Guess she din't share 'er lot of stories with the Scoobies while we were away." William gestured to Giles, grinning despondently. "Blimey, I can't even begin to think of all-" 

"And we really don't want you to," the Watcher quickly intervened. "We have to go. Buffy will be back soon, and-" 

A frog the size of Connecticut leapt into his throat. "Don' call 'er that. That...whatever that is...it isn't the Slayer. An' I don' mean in some poncy 'I'm not Spike an' 'e's not Angelus' thing," he continued, motioning to his elder. "That thing is not the Slayer. She's not my Buffy." 

The look that shadowed Angel's face read the words _she never was_ with such ardent fervor that it took even him by surprise. However, the notion passed, as most outdated instinctual tendencies do. A sigh of recognition hummed through his dormant form, and he nodded as he moved to assume the lead. "If she runs into one of us, it should be me," he decided. "Sp-Will, you're too...um..." 

"'F you say _weak_ I'll tear your-" 

"He's just trying to help," Giles observed. "It's a good idea. Here, William. Come on." 

The peroxide vampire tossed his arm over the Watcher's left shoulder and retracted instantaneously, a loud scream tearing out his throat. Familiar smoke began to sizzle through his shirt, and before he could collect his balance, William found himself on the ground, hand absently moving to caress his steaming side. 

"Erm...yes..." Giles said sheepishly. "Wrong arm." He extended his right and earned an irritated scowl as he pulled his friend to his feet. 

"Words of wisdom, Ripper," the younger vampire growled. "'F you're gonna associate with us sunlight-deprived citizens, watch what you carry 'round. Yeh oughta know that by now." 

A bit of the proverbial spark was returning to the old man's eyes. It was needed, especially during these darkening hours. "I did that intentionally." 

"Don' I know it," William snickered, though his tone betrayed nothing but fondness. "You've been lookin' for a way to off me for years." 

"I heard a stake through the heart still does the trick," Angel volunteered. Then he froze. 

Giles immediately recognized the lasting note in ode to the familiar tune of 'I Have A Bad Feeling About This.' At once, his insides flushed with cold. His grip on the peroxide vampire tightened with authority. The stronger jab of his resolve warned him not to speak, but he knew if the situation was grave, they were betrayed anyway. "An-" 

It was the iciest voice ever to walk the free earth, the coldest tenor drawn within a cavity that felt no compassion. Terror was his preliminary reaction, but he pushed it aside in light of his own seething selfishness. Whatever stood on the other side of his companion was something he was not ready to see. The face of everything he had sacrificed himself for. Something arctic seized hold of his heart determinately, squeezing black drops of sorrow in the hope they would eventually turn to gold. 

Without having to make a peep, he felt the same steadfast result shiver through his friend. 

"Well, well, well," an unfamiliar voice drawled. It made his skin crawl and summoned the taste of bile to his mouth simply with the insinuation. "I always seem to show up at the most inopportune times. Let me guess...family reunion? Sire, childe...and the childe's...cousin, I think? Something equally lame." He could not see her for the darkness, and he was glad. "William Ripper II, or was it just Fitzwilliam? Time flies, doesn't it?" She was advancing now, and he could feel power radiating off her like bolts of magnetic energy. 

The Buffy-creature stopped beside him, leaning supportively on William's aching shoulder. Proud as he was, not a moan escaped him. No reaction of any sort - not even when she bit him hard. 

"Giles, Giles, Giles," she said, not looking at him. Her hands were lost in bleached locks. The artificial affection she tampered with was difficult to watch, much less to tolerate. "You sure know how to break a girl's heart. First you go and let me get all dead, then you take away my favorite toy. Shame on you." 

Empty words as they were, they still cut deep. 

"Leave them alone," Angel said resolutely. Challenge had buried itself in his voice - challenge the Watcher could not abide but he refrained from objection. "Come on, Buffy. Don't flake out on me. You know perfectly well you could take both of them with a flick of the wrist." 

"'Ey, watch it, mate," William grumbled, immediately followed by a sharp elbowing that forewarned his mouth not to get carried away. 

Buffy grinned and neared the platinum blond, licking a long line up his neck. "Yes, I know," she replied chirpily. "Of course I know. That's what makes this..." She reached down to grasp him, but his good hand caught her before she could obtain contact. "So much _fuuuuuun_..." 

"Lay off, pet." 

"Bet you would love to make me." 

And all the while, Angel was still talking. A familiar air settled about him, one that made Giles shiver simply to consider. "They're good for amusement, sure. A good torture session or two. Fun time with chainsaws. I know the drill, Buff. I know the drill like I know you. You prefer a real fight in your man. Something that's worth defeating. Look at poor William...he's in no condition to play." 

"I swear, Peaches, 'f-" 

"Ah, ah," the Buffy-creature admonished, placing a finger to his lips. "Shhhh. That's a good boy. The big kids are talking now, Spikey. You're better just to sit there and wait your turn." 

"No can do," William replied, retracting from Giles's support, limping struggling to full height. "You might wanna take out Peaches, sure...who 'asn't? But not while I'm 'ere. I-" 

"Spike..." The elder vampire's voice. Low and agitated. 

She laughed, a long, grueling laugh that stank of fierce insensitivity. "Oh, is that all? Angelus, I didn't realize you'd gone out and gotten yourself a bodyguard. Last time I checked, it wasn't you that needed one." 

"You can pick fun with them all you want after we're through here," he replied. "Hell, I've already come close to killing Spike several times tonight. But you and me, Buff..." He flashed a patronizing smile. 

She flashed it back, dripping with falsity. "You must think I'm _really_ stupid. I lost my _soul_, not my mind, you arrogant jackass." 

"You wanna play your cards, sweetheart? Fine. I just thought you'd prefer-" 

"I know what you _thought_, Angelus. That's the trouble with you. All thinking and no acting." 

"You have nothing to lose," he observed, taking a bold step forward. "Either way, the ball's in your court." 

Her eyes narrowed menacingly. "I like it there. But, on an tremendously annoying note, you do have a point." With a growl, she suddenly lunged forward and grasped William's shirt collar. Giles fought to retract it, but her grip was far superior to any he could maintain. His efforts only amused her, and she hastened her hold, a long cackle rumbling through her body. 

"Rushing to save the life of a vampire," she murmured. "Especially this one. I never thought I'd see the day." Her eyes flickered to her objective, and she offered a superlatively forged smile. "I'll admit...it's a nice set up you got here, Spike. I can see why you'd be so reluctant to-" 

A flash coincided with a tremulous grunt as the platinum blond pounced. In an instant, they were both on the ground, and he had straddled her waist, delivering blows that weren't nearly as powerful as they looked, but substantial enough to keep her floored. The pure malevolence flooding his features was enough to frighten any heart-regardless of how black it was. 

"You fucking bitch!" he screamed, empowerment striking his worn body. "You took 'er away from me, you worthless heap of compost! You killed 'er, but that wasn' enough...you had to _take 'er away_, too!" 

"Will!" Giles grabbed him by the leg and hauling him upward. "Will, this is not the time. Come on...Dawn will be worried sick." 

It was mention of the name that quenched the fire in his eyes, and while he struggled again against the Watcher's hold, his resolve weakened and he nodded in understanding. The Buffy-creature, battered and a little worse for the wear, wiped the dribbling blood from her chin and chuckled. "Oh come on, old man," she spat. "Things were just beginning to get interesting." 

William growled and moved as though to lunge again, but thought the better of it. "Fuckin' bitch," he repeated bitterly. "Come near me an' mine-" 

"Yours?" she echoed incredulously. "Why, Spike, I never knew you imagined yourself so valued. Go on. Run to your precious Dawn, you housebroken puppy." She laughed again and started to sit up, immediately deterred by Angel's assumed position. He kicked her back and set himself astride her as his childe had. No want of mercy creased his brow. 

Then it was his turn for retribution. Each punch gashed a blemish that looked odd against ivory skin, wounds swelling with the release of polluted blood. However, despite reasoning, the Buffy-creature was all the more humored, cackling as the blows were delivered. Giles paused by the door, his grip on William substantial, and lost himself in a form of morbid fascination. It wasn't until the elder vampire barked at them to run that he dragged his besieged companion to safety. 

"Oh, you're good," the fiend beneath him bantered, bruised but not hurt. Her eyes flashed maliciously and she flung him to the crypt wall with fluent ease. In honesty, he was surprised she had waited so long to retaliate, but given the circumstances, would not question his good fortune. 

"Oh, don't look so glum," she said as she advanced. "What did you expect?" 

"I'm not disappointed," he replied, fighting to his feet. "I always knew you'd make a hell of a vampire." 

"So that's why you didn't turn me when you had the chance?" she countered, running her tongue over her teeth. "Not very convincing, Angelus." 

"What can I say?" He offered a simple shrug before lashing out with the back of his fist. It was an easy block; she caught him by the arm and threw a punch to his face. "I've never liked competition." 

The Buffy-creature arched her brows at him challengingly. "Horse shit." 

"Well, it's not like the opportunity came knocking." 

"Oh, but you felt it," she retorted. "You felt my want of the darkness. You had to. You say I _never_ gave you the chance? Like hell, and you know it. Every time we fought you could have taken me. I would have let you." Her eyes traced him suggestively. "You were a decent lay, if memory serves." 

Angel rolled his eyes and attacked again, swinging with glorious connection for her jaw. Skin touched skin, but he felt her iron grip enclose around his wrist, and she used her advantage to kick swiftly in the abdomen. "You, sure. You would have let me," he conceded with a grunt. "Buffy wasn't quite as whorish in her intentions." 

"Ouch. That took balls." She charged, kicking him to the ground as he fought to sit up. "Glad to see you finally grew yourself a pair. Honestly, Angel, you act like this wasn't inevitable. What did you expect? Buffy the Vampiric Vampire Slayer? Sounds like a bad sitcom." When she swung her leg for him again, he surprised her - clutching her calf to his advantage. She had only time to shoot him an arched look before he yanked her to the ground, forcing her to her back. 

Then he was over her, poised and snarling in reverence of his true demonic roots. She gasped in affect, and fleeting lust flashed across her eyes. A different lust altogether. Lust that he had never witnessed in all their years of acquaintance. Dark and welcoming. The look only a vampire could issue. "Oh," she drawled invitingly. "Now _this_ feels familiar." 

Something inside flinched, but he refused to take the bait. That would do little to vacillate the turf in his favor. "You will be stopped, you know," he sputtered informatively, hand going to her throat in empty threat. "Somehow. Even if one of us has to-" 

"Oh, don't do that," the Buffy-creature berated. "Bad Angel. No biscuit. Lies will get you nowhere. You lack the stamina to do anything concrete. I've been there. I've seen it. You like this too much to let yourself waver under the influence of poor bleeding William's rambling. No, Angelus. This is what you want." The next move was well planned and caught him far off guard. In a flash, she spread her thighs and captured him between stalwartly muscled legs, arching herself against him. He could not help it; a moan seethed through his teeth. _"This_ is what you want. Some grunt work. A nice good fuck. Oh, imagine the team we would make. You and me...like you've always wanted." 

At that, he tried to sit up. Tried and failed. Odd that he was the one trapped when it was she who was pinned to the ground. "Oh no," she cooed. "It's useless lying to yourself. Come on, you miserable fuck. Come on. Prove to me you're half the man you claim to be." She flashed her fangs as she burst into game face, grounding her hips against his, immeasurably giving her the advantage. 

It was impossible and daring. She knew what she was asking and what his answer would be. However, that didn't stop the shiver of temptation from shimmying up his spine. That didn't put halt to the one blessed second in which he wanted to. Such enticement was consuming - terrifying to a degree that made one doubt self-constructed willpower. Angel had spent the better of his years away from Sunnydale putting an end to feelings of animosity. That road was traveled and he had no material desire to venture its course again. Yes, he had taken Darla in the heartland of depression and objectivity, but he had not loved her. Cordelia, unlikely as it was, held his ardor and affection, and for that purpose alone, he knew they could never be together. But Buffy was his first, and in many ways, his only. In over two centuries, she was the first to claim that shadowland of warmth. That which he kept concealed from the world. It was because of her that he left. Because of her youth. Because of what she had to offer and what he could never consciously grasp. And here she was again. Buffy but not Buffy. A mate blacker than his demon could ever conjure. True havoc reeked in the layers of that falsified smile, and the proposition made with her eyes was too much to bear. 

And yet he was tempted. 

He saw what William had meant in his reasoning. It wasn't her. It truly wasn't her. In a manner that could never be compared to the Angelus in him or the Spike in his childe - it wasn't Buffy. This face did not belong to the Slayer. 

The second passed, and all plausible persuasion dissolved. 

"Let me up," Angel growled, and by the fall of her face, he knew he was understood. The creature frowned and released him, kicking him again to the wall as she climbed to her feet. 

"Fucking Christ, every vampire in this town is whipped," she grumbled. "And somehow, it's all my fault." 

"Charismatic charm," he retorted sharply. "Or so it used to be." 

"You know I can't let you our of here, right? I mean, I do intend to do more... well... _doing_ than you ever did." She smiled sourly. "I'll admit... Jenny Calendar. That was a good one. Little bitch had it coming. But what was your count other than that? Willow's fish? _That_ from the big bad Angelus? What a shame." 

"You're taking cheap shots now," he observed, circling. "And you wouldn't bother unless you felt threatened." 

The thought made her rumble in mirth. "Threatened?" 

"One way or another, Buff." Angel grinned, despite how weakened he was by lack of tenacity. "You have it all right now. Sure. The sky's the limit. You're the strongest thing in this town. No bothersome mortality to deal with, no conscience, no feel at all for humanity. But even then, the numbers are against you, sweetheart. In the end, there's us and there's you. I'd say the odds aren't in your favor." 

"In the end, there's just _me_, honey. Mutual acquaintance told me that once. And fuck it all, I don't care." She advanced once more, drawing a piece of splint wood from the ground without leaving his eyes. "You ever wonder what dust tastes like?" 

"'E 'asn't, but you're about to." 

It happened too quickly for either to follow. The next second purchased the sound of a crossbow, fine and elegant in the air, flying swiftly through the air. It burst through the Buffy-creature's chest, breaking bone and skin in one tremendous blow. A gasp of surprised desperation sounded through the air, clutching her with firm authority as she toppled into a jumbled heap. 

Behind her stood William, crossbow poised and ready in his gasp. "Let's get one thing straight, bitch," he growled. "Only one of us 'round 'ere gets to off Peaches, an' I called dibs years ago." He glanced to his sire, who could not help but regard him with surprise. "Wha's all that? Yeh comin'?" 

No need to ask him twice. 

He had never run so fast, or so reluctantly. Even still, his steps were outmatched by William's ardent strides. They were halfway back to Revello Drive before either thought of stopping, both heaving for unnecessary air, and trading looks of paralleled esteem. 

"I can't believe you did that," the older vampire confessed, shaking his head when they again stepped into pace. 

"Did what? Come after you?" 

"No...with the crossbow...and Buffy-" 

The younger shrugged simply, resting the weapon nonchalantly at his shoulder. "Wasn' nothin'. Jus' gave 'er a run for 'er money. Less you were really outta it an' missed the entire 'she din't go all poof' thing." A sigh coursed through his system. "If I'd wanted to kill 'er, I'd've aimed for the heart. An' I wouldn't 'ave missed." 

Angel pursed his lips and nodded. There were some things mankind was simply not supposed to understand. "You came after me," he whispered. 

"I did." William winced at the implication, though it was in good humor. "Don' go all poncy on me, Peaches. I did it why I said I did it. Killin' you's my job. Always 'as been. I'm not about to let some wacky vampire sod that up for me. 'Sides..." He trailed off thoughtfully, eyes growing distant for a long second. "'F she killed you, an' we get 'er back, she'd never forgive 'erself." 

"Spike, she doesn't-" 

"I know. Bloody hell, I wasn' meaning to sound like..." It was only when they shared a long look that Angel was convinced. Finally, after being told a thousand times over, his childe really did understand. "But that doesn' mean she's not your girl, too, as much as it pains me to admit. Anythin' were to 'appen that was 'er fault, she'd...hell, I dunno...but it wouldn't be pretty." 

"What is, anymore?" he replied surreptitiously. "Did Willow find an Orb of Thesulah at the Magic Box?" 

"No. Plum run out, they did." William stilled. "But somethin' did 'appen. Watcher Boy called." 

"Wes?" 

"Yeah. Said a one of 'em had had some wonky vision 'bout this an' the like. Got 'em all riled up. 'E's comin'...Wes or whoever. 'E was gettin' ready before I left." 

Unbridled agitation rumbled through his system, Angel expelled a sigh. "God. I know he means well, but what can he possibly do that-" 

"Well, those wankers in the Council contacted him," William continued. "Not five days ago. Said they got wind somethin' bad was brewin'. An' now 'e's comin'. There's more. I din't get far, but I heard enough. Help has come to town - Watcher Boy sent 'er straight away." 

"Help?" 

"Willow went to go get 'er at the bus station. 'S some renegade slayer bird who's hopefully rehabilitated enough to know what the hell to stake an' not to stake." He frowned. "You know...that sounds oddly familiar. Any idea who she is?" 

Angel was no longer beside him. He stood several paces away, astonishment blowing him clear out of the water. "Faith." 


	35. Faith

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

"So, B finally got it in her to go postal."  The voice was one they had heard a thousand times, knew to expect, and still managed to send vibrations of recollection throughout the room.  "I always knew this day was coming.  There's no way anyone could be that wholesome without eventually—"

Much had changed since Faith last stood in the foyer of 1630 Revello Drive.  A sort of grown maturity hung about her character, but not enough to make any substantial difference.  There was no question concerning the opinion of those whose presence she now relied on.   Despite the pledge of good confidence Angel issued time and time again, the hostility surrounding her had not alleviated much, if at all.  For what she had done in the past was unforgivable in many lights, contradicting the nature of their falling foundation, but not without merit.  However her intentions might have altered, however her mortality might have blossomed, the Sunnydale residents would always see her in a very different light.   

Xander coughed loudly.  "I hate to burst your bubble because I _know _how long you've waited to see her fail, but what happened to her wasn't her fault."

"Still singin' the same old song, I see," Faith retorted darkly, sizing him up with her eyes.  "I don't blame you.  Really, I didn't mean anything by it.  I just—"

"Yeah.  You just."  With a sigh, Harris turned to Willow, who was leaning glumly against the hall entry.  "Have I mentioned recently how much I hate this plan?"

"Not for about seven minutes," she answered.  "Almost a record."

He grinned proudly.  "Well, that's an accomplishment, if I ever heard one.  I was only aiming for three."  The casual tease abandoned his eyes without motive and he looked back at the dark-haired Slayer. "You do know you're only here for negotiations, right? As in no stakey the Buffy."

Faith flexed her brows suggestively. "Gee, Harris. Welcome to the conversation. Yeah, Wes went over the full about a thousand times on the way to the airport. Any more, and I swear he would've given me a pop quiz. I'm here to hold, not to kill. Got the full jist and all that BS." Sighing emphatically, she rolled her eyes and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "So…aside from postal Buffy, how is everyone? Long time no—" 

"Don't even finish that sentence," Xander warned. "We're not going to socialize and become all friendly-like. If memory serves, that leads to badness in the worst of ways." 

Willow smiled slightly. "Because there's a badness in the _best_ of ways." 

"Yeah…" He blinked and tossed her a cynical smirk. "A big bucket of funny as always. I'm just saying—" 

"Listen, I don't want to get into a big whatever while I'm here," Faith said stridently. "Just don't talk about the past, and I won't be the bitch who won't get off your ass, all right? Angel thinks I'm all right. That should be—" 

"Peaches also thinks all that gel makes 'is hair look less wankerish." William was coming down the staircase. However long he had been there was anyone's presumption. It was natural and assumed he climbed in through the long neglected window in Buffy's bedroom. "'Course, we all know tha's the not the case, so no use in coverin' it up." His eyes narrowed with scrutiny at the sight of the new arrival, and he drew in a huff of air. "Well, you must be Faith. 'S somethin' to meet you, face to face, that is." 

She grinned tightly, violent gaze flickering with amused recognition. "Oh yeah. William the Bloody with a chip in his head. How the fuck are yah?" 

"Lil sore, thanks for askin'." 

The pause allotted Willow enough time to spring from her position and sail into his arms. William fell back at the force of her hug, constrictive with relief and burden of carried anxiety. "Oh God, you're home," she gasped. 

The term home was used with such lenience that he made him stop in reflection, but it was best not to dwell on such things. A smile tickled his lips as he patted her back with lasting gentility. "Tha's right. Come on, Red. Don' tell me you were worried or what all. I got more stones than—" 

"Don't try to be all tough guy on me," she warned, pulling out of his embrace. "Angel and I…when she left…when she carried you out." 

"'Ey there. 'S all right. I'm still undead an' all." The friendship he had with Willow was one casual observes would never understand, but they had long ago agreed to stop questioning. 

"I'll keep that in mind," she replied, grinning expressively.  "It'll sure keep me from aging a year a night.  The next time you get kidnapped by a crazed vampire, no worrying from me."

"Good.  See that it stays that way."

Xander stepped forward and grasped William's hand without pretense.  The act itself was sufficiently formal to avoid awkwardness, but still wholly surprising.  Despite all acts of presumed disliking, enough esteem was held to establish the foundation of mutual respect and acceptance.  The vampire thought it better not to question a show of hospitality.   

"Glad you got out," Harris said as they broke apart.  "Where's Angel?"

"Still climbin' in," he replied. "Saw some vamps prattlin' 'round down the street.  'E'll be 'ere soon enough."

"Did you guys see her?" Faith asked.  "I mean, obviously you saw her.  If I'm about to go against a fucking pissed off slayer turned vamp, I'm gonna need the inside scoop.  'Specially since I've been outta the game a couple years.  How mental has she gone?"

"Giles said something to the affect of Reagan MacNeil, but not as likeable," Xander offered.  "Or you, without a conscience."

She arched her brows at him challengingly.

"And while…PMSing?"

"Harris…" she said warningly.  "You don't even wanna know how close I am to—"

"And for everyone who doesn't want her to finish that sentence," Willow intervened quickly.  "Let's get back on topic.  Sp…William, did you or Angel get hurt or something?  We probably want to make sure every one of the Scoobies is all in preparation mode for the big evil."  A frown beset her face.  "I just never thought that…"

"None of us did, Red.  An' no…Peaches is fine, though I think his pride 'as been better," the vampire replied, running a hand through strands of bleached hair.  "I wasn' there to see everythin'.  But she 'ad 'im on the floor…or the other way around.  Either way, he was losin' his gall."

The Witch's eyes darkened.  "What did she do?"

A wave of silence overcame him, hurt but understanding.  "I wasn' there to see everythin'," he explained when he found his voice.  "But 'e told me enough.  Apparently, Prophy's itchin' for a new playmate."

Xander's brows arched.  "Porphy?"  

William smirked beside his poignancy. "Gave 'er a nickname while she entertained 'erself.  Had to.  Couldn't stand to call 'er Buffy."

"So you chose…Porphy."

"From Browning, right?" Willow asked helpfully.  "He had a poem about some girl or her lover…or something to do with a girl _and_ her lover."

"Yeh.  Took a chapter outta that tale."

She beamed proudly and nudged Xander's shoulder.  "Who says you learn nothing in high school?"

"No one by your name, for sure," he replied.  "And did we read that in high school?"

A grin overwhelmed her features.  A good, honest grin.  It was nice to see, especially given extreme circumstances.  "Well, most of us read.  Some of us napped."

Faith's gaze had not wavered from William.  With forceful intent, she stepped forward.  "She wanted a new playmate, huh?  What kind of playmate?"

The vampire looked down again as if to hide his reaction.  A long beat passed as he collected his thoughts.  "It wasn' her," he began, voice steady, though kept as though he was trying to convince himself above all others.  "Tha's the important thing."

Something dark flashed behind the new Slayer's gaze, and she paced forward once more.  "What did you mean by _playmate?_  Did she hurt Angel?"     

At that, William rolled his eyes and released a long, expecting chuckle.  "Another sodding Peaches groupie," he observed.  "Bloody typical.  Well, pet, you tell me what I meant.  Shouldn't be too mysterious.  'E has a retractable soul, unlike yours truly.  She…well, she…"

Immediately, Willow stepped forward, placing a complacent arm on his shoulder.  "She didn't mean anything by it.  Well, sure…_she _did…but not Buffy.  You know she would never—"

He grinned at her concern.  "This isn't about me, Red, much as I 'preciate the notion.  I knew the minute I saw 'er that she wasn' the Slayer.  She's jus' tryin' to run a muck, and sod all 'f I let 'er."

It was most obvious that Faith had not heard a word beyond the confirmation of Buffy's actions against the elder vampire.  The look on her face was one created by sweet retribution.  A frontage not seen justified in accordance with her nature.  She flexed her hand to wan away tension and was all but trembling with outrage when she spoke again.  "That fucking bitch.  Doesn't she know what…good, God, I'll—"

"Judge not lest ye be judged, oh hypocritical one," Xander snapped defensively.  "And she has an excuse. Last time I checked you tried to make Angel go bonkers because there was nothing better to do."

William coughed to deter attention, but no one looked at him.

"And as Spike so adequately stated," Harris continued, "you're not dealing with Buffy.  If Buffy was here, you'd still be wasting away in LA.  Whoever it is…Porky…Porphy…or—"

"Porphyria," William said.  "An' 'e's right.  I should know.  I wouldn't 'ave jammed 'er full of crossbow 'f any part of that was the Slayer."

At that, everyone in the room glanced at him dubiously.  It took only that announcement, minor as it was, for Xander's eyes to go blank and the previously manifest support to crash with a conclusive bang.  "You what?!"

"She was about to off Peaches.  I 'ad no choice."  The peroxide vampire backtracked once he assessed that he had stepped into foreign territory.  "She's still undead too, mate.  I wouldn't 'ave done somethin' so bloody stupid.  I give yah, Angel's my grand-sire an' all, but I don' like the poof all _that_ much.  I won' kill this bird until I know there's no chance.  Until I know that…"

"Until we know she's not coming back," Willow acknowledged with a sigh.

"Yeh.  I told you…or…whoever, after the lot of you brought 'er back, 'f there'd been somethin' wrong an' you had to get rid of what you got that I wouldn't let you.  Not if the slightest bit of 'er was still…her."  William waited for Xander's nod of recollection.  "'F we can't get her back, an' tha's for certain, I'll do it.  I'll kill my love's murderer.  Not one part of that thing is Buffy."

"You'll have to beat me there, pal," Faith growled.  "I gotta right mind to—"

It was rash and poorly played; not to mention it left a burning headache.  William's hand shot out without thought, clasping the other Slayer's throat.  The hold lasted all of two seconds—cut off in mutual regard to the swift kick at his chest and the retraction to cradle his head in pain.  He found himself on the stairs, caressing the tender skin at his brow.

"What's the big fucking deal, bitch?" she snapped, rubbing her throat though he had not held on long enough to produce any marks. 

William wouldn't even meet her eyes; he was tremulous with too much fury.  Flashing a quick, fiery glance to Willow—who was quaking, herself, at the sight of such an outburst—he commanded, "I don' want that crazy bint anywhere near my Slayer."

"She's not _your _Slayer!" Xander said hotly.  "I don't care who you are.  Even if she was Buffy, she never was—"

"I don' have time to prattle around with nancy-boy technicalities," the vampire snapped.  "That bird doesn' wanna help.  She's out for blood."

"Well, so are you!" Faith yelled back.  "William the Pussy-Whipped Bloody.  Mr. I-Got-A-Soul-But-I'm-So-Gosh-Darned-Afraid-To-Use-It.  Make accusations that you can follow; it's a good hint.  Nothin' else coulda made you snap B with a crossbow.  I guaran-damn-tee you that."

"She was gonna kill your savior, sweetheart," he retorted indignantly.  "But 'm not about to end 'er right good.  Not while she stands a chance."

"Hello!  Neither am I.  Back the fuck off."

"You 'ave before."

The other Slayer's eyes went wide with the sting of accusation.  "Jesus-Tap-Dancing-Christ, I've been on the goddamned honor role longer than you have.  If we're gonna play that game, Willy, the let me go right ahead and crown you the winner.  You arrogant bastard.  I'm bad to the bone, baby, and likely will be forever.  I'm all five by five.  Secure in it.  At least I know that.  I can accept it.  You're lost, pops.  Don't think they haven't told me about you."

The platinum vampire perked a brow.  "You're five by five?" he repeated.  "As opposed to six by six?  What the bloody hell does that mean?"

Xander snickered in spite of himself.  Willow elbowed him.   

Faith rolled her eyes and stepped back, hands going up in frustration.  "I knew there was a reason I hated Brits," she observed.  "I knew it.  If they're not all over your back because of the stupid world, they're annoying you in the highest degree."

"Well," Harris said with a shrug.  "He's Spike.  That's what he's good for."  Again, the Willow elbowed him.

"Doesn't even matter that I have something helpful to tell you people," she continued, speaking as though recording an inward monologue.  "Go ahead.  Bang!  Ruin the fun of the surprise.  Faith's a big a screw-up as always.  I—"

It was then that Angel appeared at the top of the stairway.  "Whoa," he said bluntly.  "Looks like I've interrupted a hell of a party."

William glanced at him with masked agitation.  "Welcome aboard, Peaches.  We're jus' 'avin' a lil debate.  Seems your girl 'ere thinks the best way to deal with our problem is through a pointy piece of wood."

Xander and Willow immediately latched onto Faith's arms so she wouldn't lunge.  "That's not what I said, you—"

"Stop it!  Sheesh, and I thought you two would get along."  The elder vampire rolled his eyes and started downward to join them.  "Of course, I didn't take into affect that…well…no one gets along with Spike if they can help it.  And that—"

"Psh.  Right, you ponce," his childe scoffed bitterly.  "See 'f I go outta my way to save your hide again."

"Save it, Spike." Angel turned to Faith and nodded slowly, motioning for her captors to release.  There was no threat anymore, if there ever had been.  "You have something to share?"

Arms crossed, she tossed a wry look in William's direction, distaste spelled across her features in bright bold ink.  "If Billy Idol here doesn't have any more notes of wisdom to spiel to your goody-gooders, then yeah.  I do."  She arched her brows at the younger vampire in challenge, and though he met her stare blow for blow, he did not speak.  "Wes's got a lead.  Well, he's waiting.  He said he'll be here sometime tomorrow but to go on without him anyway.  That's why he didn't get here when I did."

Angel nodded.  "What's the lead?"

At that, the Slayer grinned—a smile so pure and similarly frightening that it could scare a toddler into giving up an ice-cream cone.  "Orb of Thesulah, baby.  In the fucking house.  He called around like crazy and found a magic store that still sells 'em."  Her eyes flickered back to the platinum vampire, dulling and brightening simultaneously.  "Which is what I mean when I said I would not kill her, you dick.  I won't.  Not unless this stupid curse thing doesn't work out."

William shook his head, unwilling to admit that his heart would have leapt at the news if it had the capacity to beat.  There could be no thought of hope.  Not until he saw her eyes again and knew her for Buffy.  Knew that all would be well.  Still, the hostility left his tone.  There was no place for it anymore.  "You're forgettin' one thing, pet," he observed.   

She snickered at him.  "What's that?"

"Buffy wasn't your number one fan when she was all soul—an' for that matter— pulse-havin'," he said.  "Now she's a wicked powerful Slayer/vamp hybrid with a nasty grudge.  Even if she had put it all behind 'er, the Porphyria thing she is now 's gonna remember you as that bird who got on 'er bad side.  Me an' Peaches 'ere were on 'er good side.  Imagine what she'd do to you."

A flash of fear—small but detectable—blazed across her eyes.  Then it was back to boasting, confidence, smiling as if the entire matter was of no consequence.  "Yeah, well, she'll have to get through—"

"Wait a second, Faith," Angel intervened, stepping beside her and grasping her shoulder.  "He does have a point.  You haven't been in active training mode for some time now.  She could very well—"

"Who cares?" the Slayer replied airily.  "I got the moves, I got the skills.  She better watch her bony ass out.  I'll drop her so quick—"

"You couldn't beat her before," he said, and the color drained from her face.  "I didn't want to say it, but there it is.  You tried and she gutted you.  She's been training hard for years since you were put away.  She has resources now that you can't possibly fathom. She—"

"All right!  Jesus H. Christ, give a girl a break."  Faith stepped out of his reach, hand combing nervously through her hair.  "So what do I do?  Sit from the sidelines while the rest of you give a go at it?  I don't think so.  This is my calling, you miserable fucks, and I intend to do something with it."

Angel shook his head and seized hold of her arm once again.  "I wasn't suggesting you don't."

"Then what the hell were you suggesting?"

"That Spike and I go with you to keep Buffy in line."  He eyed William for approval; though it was obvious he didn't care if it was granted.  "Just to make sure things go well."

"Yeah.  Me and Vamp Buffy dukin' it out in the streets of Sunnydale," she retorted cynically.  "What makes you think anything could go wrong?" 

"We'll be there," the platinum vampire said.  "We sure as hell oughta be."

Faith's brows arched skeptically.  "Do you honestly think she'll show with all of us there?  She might be bloodthirsty, but B's not stupid."

"We'll be there…just to watch," Angel clarified.  "And stop her from…well…"

A smile crossed her face.  "Vamping me?"

"Killing you." Xander's eyes narrowed and he stepped forward.  "She wouldn't vamp someone she considers an enemy.  Remember the entire 'not stupid' thing?  Yeah…it applies for that, too."    

"Well, whatever.  I just know I'll give her something to scream about." At that, she frowned.  "So, what?  If we're not here to slay, then why the fuck did they drag my ass out of LA?"

"You're questioning your temporary freedom?" Willow asked.

"Oh, is that what you think?  No.  It's good to be back in ole SunnyD.  Got a lot of fond memories and all that sentimental crap.  And I get the entire 'Wes is coming to save the day—yippee.'  But still…what do ya'll need me?  We go out and make sure…what?"

"That she doesn't hurt anyone," the Witch replied.  "If the curse works, Buffy won't be able to live with herself if she—"

"Oh, right.  Goody two-shoes Summers."  A foray of piercing looks persuaded the Slayer to discontinue the thought.  "Right.  Whatever.  We'll deal."

"When will Wes be here?"

"If we're lucky," Angel observed, "he'll show tomorrow."

At that, William scoffed bitterly.  "When have we _ever _been lucky?"

The air grew thick with silent acceptance.  No one attempted a reply.

*~*~*

All grew quiet on the home front.  

However long they stayed up talking, Dawn didn't know.  For hours, it seemed, she had lied in the wake, tears crusted against raw and reddened cheeks.  She suspected no one realized how acutely voices drifted through walls and vents in the house.  In the days of her youth, she had trained herself to be a connoisseur of deciphering the various muffled vowels and brief silences. It had not taken long to become fluent in the art of eavesdropping.  From this vantage point, she had listened Buffy sneak a vampire into her room.  Had listened as an impossible alliance between two enemies was forged to bring down a mutual adversary.   It was irrefutable; there was only one place to get all the dirt—the hot gossip.  This was it.

They didn't know how much she could hear.  No one did.

Dawn sighed, a lone tear rolling down her cheek, filling ruts carved into puffy skin.  It timed perfectly with the tremor that quaked through her body.  Never in her life had she felt this much desperation—the desolate sensation of utter abandonment.  In the past, despite how bad things got, there had always been someone to rely on.  A sister to cling to.  Even during the months following Buffy's sacrifice, she had never thoroughly experience the coarse reality of arbitral desertion.  Giles had been there.  And Spike.  And Willow.  And Tara.  Arguably, nothing had changed, though all felt different.  Notwithstanding the deceiving frontage and what her subconscious willed her to believe, the vampire she had trusted with more than her life was gone.  She knew William would die protecting her, but it wasn't the same.

The person she depended most upon had disappeared as well.  Gone in the worst of ways.  Gone but still there.  Gone, but in Sunnydale.  Ruining lives, destroying families, maiming the innocent all the while hating her.  It seemed poignantly fitting.  After all, Buffy had _always_ been there.  When Glory had her hostage, the solitary thought that kept her resolve from diminishing was that her sister was out there and would stop at nothing to get her back. What was to happen when she became the target of the hunt?  Vampire or not, she was certain the Slayer was consistent in one thing: she would not stop.  She would never give up.  Never.

Without realizing it, Dawn had started crying again.  More than simple sorrow, more than any measure of grief could feasibly express.  She sobbed when there were no more tears to offer, gasped for air that hovered above her with mocking objectivity.  She could not cry enough—she could not cry at all.  Whatever there was to offer in the cruel face of humanity, she lacked in full.  Everything was stripped away, rendering her cold, barren, and alone.

It was then it came rasping.  A small and obscure tapping, at the face of her chamber door.  Dawn's eyes flew open and she fought to maintain control over her release, but nature had none to offer.

Another tapping.  Feather-light.  Knocking, inquiring, at her…

She sat up, eyes shooting to the projection of light cast under the door.  No one stood there.  Whatever it was had to be a conjecture of her overly active imagination.  Her hope was becoming too strong.  It would do little good to—

It came again—louder this time.  Strident and demanding.  She heard the metallic hissing in her gasp and her froze in her chest.  The sound was intruding from the window, not the door.  The window where there sat, perched on a sturdy tree branch, the deceptively neutralizing persona of her dead sister.

Which came first—panic or relief—she was not certain.  It had been days since she last saw Buffy.  Days that somehow transpired to weeks and ultimately to years.  Her blood coursed with the taste of reaction, and without thinking, she edged to her feet and pushed the frame open.  Cool night air kissed the wetness on her face and nearly ripened her body to stone.

She was not sure who she was looking at, or what.  The image was Buffy, but those were not her sister's eyes.  A smile that dripped with falsified compassion was etched tightly on her face.  When Dawn was nearly convinced that there was nothing there—that her sight had finally failed her—the being leaned forward and stretched her hand to explore the invisible barrier between them.

She didn't get far.  A low hum announced her collusion with a boundary compressed of nothing; she frowned and pulled away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear.  "I can't believe those guys," she muttered in aggravation.  "What, is this punishment for me locking _them _out of the house?  They have some bizarre foundation for grudges, I tell you.  You'd think people would learn to grow up every now and then."

That was all the prompt she required.  Dawn leapt to her feet, backing strategically from the window.  "Get out of here," she ordered, trying to sound strong.  Her throat hummed with the taste of nervousness, but she did not let it distract her.

The look she received in reply was enough to break anyone.  A patented Buffy look.  Brokenhearted—hurt beyond reproach.  "Dawnie," she pleaded.  "Please let me in.  Don't recognize me?  It's me…it's—"

No, that couldn't be allowed.  Furiously, she clasped her hands over her ears and shook her head and fervent denial.  "Liar!"

"Dawn—"

"No.  No!  Get out of my room, you motherfucking liar!" She was screaming so hard she was certain her plight could be heard for miles.  Perhaps that was the reason the thundering up the stairs failed to register to her conscious.  "You evil bitch!  Get _out of here!"_

Her bedroom door flew open, but she did not turn to greet her guests.  Without having to look, she understood.  Cold comfort swept her insides with all the joyless relief it could offer.  

"Looky, looky," William drawled from behind.  "'Ello, luv."

Another voice.  Angel.  "Get out of here, Buffy."

That was all it took for the look of presumed innocence to slip from her face.  An expression as malevolent as any to befall her sister's character beset her achingly familiar features.  Then the thing was laughing.  Cackling.  Making viciously delightful fun of her misery.  "I should have known the brigade would come a runnin'," she observed.  "I must say, I've trained you all very, very well.  That was impressive."

Dawn heard Willow gasp.  "Oh God."  The preempted sound of tears was in her voice.

Xander was next.  His resolution was as wobbly as any, but he managed to hold his ground.  "No…that's not—"

"Oh," the Buffy-creature spat.  "Let me guess.  You're line's going to be…'that's not her.'  Do you have _any _conceivable notion how many times I've heard that in the past couple days?  Really, you guys should look into getting a new slogan."

The last to enter the exchange was the furthest away, similarly she with the most hostility to her name.  "Where is she?" Faith growled, pushing people out of the way in a frenzied hurry to get up front.  "I swear to—"

The Buffy-creature's eyes widened when she saw her.  "Holy fuck," she said.  "I had no idea you guys had gotten _this _desperate.  It's kind of flattering…in a 'you must really have a death wish' way."

Faith's gaze flickered dangerously.  "Get out of here, B."

"Or you'll what?  Go into another coma?"

At that, the other Slayer assumed one of her notorious poises, leaning far to the left with her hand on her hip.  "Maybe dying a third time gave you some serious brain cancer or somethin'," she suggested.  "I coulda sworn I told you to leave.  And yet, you're still there.  Nothing a good staking couldn't fix."

William and Angel must have tensed, for the Buffy-creature looked appraisingly in their direction.  "Still talking big, I see," she replied, eyes homing in.  "Well, I'm ready to dance if you are.  Honestly, Faith, I don't see why you think you stand a slightest chance.   I mean…you couldn't beat me before.  What the hell makes you think you could now?"

The other Slayer didn't even flinch.  "I've discovered the perks to forming strong alliances."

"Get out of here, Buffy."  Angel again.  Voice low in warning.  

"Oh, threats from the big boy now.  Is your bodyguard on break?" She gestured to William in amusement.  "Don't see a crossbow anywhere."

"Don't tempt me, pet," the Cockney growled.  "Wouldn't want to do anythin' rash."

"Let me guess…because you're not Spike?"  She frowned at the elder vampire.  "And to think…I came so close to getting you back to being fun again.  But—"

Faith was losing her patience.  In honesty, Dawn was surprised she had lasted this long.  With an emphatic step forward, she produced a cross harbored in her left hand and waved it at the window.  The effect was pleasing; the Buffy-creature hissed and vamped and lost balance, collapsing to the ground below.

"Yeah!" Xander yelped.  "Take that, Porky!"

William glanced at him with domed brow.

"I mean Porphy!"

Faith leaned out the window and chucked the sacred emblem with supreme marksmanship.  Dawn didn't look but her sister's cry of pain brought enough realism to the scenario for anyone to challenge.

Then the Slayer was yelling idle threats—things she knew would never come to be.  No one was staking Buffy.  Not while a chance remained that Buffy could be rescued.

"That ballsy little bitch," Faith muttered as she drew back inside.  "Didn't figure she'd come by here."

"I did," Angel whispered.  "She had to eventually."

"I should go out.  We all should."  She motioned to William broadly.  "Whaddya say?  Think she's going out for dinner?"

"She already ate, pet," the platinum vampire observed.  "But that won' stop 'er from reaping all kinds of hell.  All right…patrolling it is.  Come on, Peaches."

There was no sense in feeling abandoned now; Dawn understood they were doing what was needed.  Still, her body was trembling far too hard to be discarded in consequence.  Willow was at her side immediately, arms around her and persuading her head to find purchase at her shoulder.  "It's all right," she whispered emptily, not attempting to conceal the doubt behind her voice.  "It'll be all right.  I promise.  No tears, no tears.  You got graduation tomorrow!  There can be no tears at graduation!"  Her voice was clogged with a wealth of emotion that the Witch could not deny.  "Well…unless they're happy tears, of course."

She wouldn't be able to live up to that.  Not now.  Not after everything. 

Not when it was time to brave the night.


	36. Mending Wall

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

Every inch of the town simply burst with the promise of a long, healthy summer.  It was one of those annoyingly chipper days that made everyone who wasn't combusting with radiant energy frown in discontent and excuse themselves from all imminent promise of conversation.  Dawn's graduation was scheduled for the courtyard at Sunnydale High, but threat of a rainstorm that never arrived persuaded the faculty to move it indoors.  William and Angel were there, standing precariously near Giles trying to maintain the frontage of proud relatives while scooping the crowd for signs of trouble.

It took no one by surprise that Buffy didn't show.  Such would have been a hazardously bold move on her account.  

The look on Dawn's face when she received her diploma was distant and forlorn.  She smiled when she was supposed to, shook the principal's hand with detached interest, and even paused to have her photo taken with a group of friends she would likely never see again.  If anyone noticed her slump, they were too preoccupied in their own feelings of perpetual delight to make mention.

Willow took her in her arms as soon as the students were dispatched.  The two vampires slipped on sunglasses, ponchos, thick gloves, and carried themselves under umbrellas to the car.  Several odd glances fired in their direction, but no one stopped to inquire.

"I'm so proud of you, sweetie," the Witch said supportively, climbing into the driver's seat.

"Yeah," Dawn replied, tone monotonous, removing her cap and tossing it in the backseat where Giles was scrunched between two very sun-allergic colleagues.  Both were buried under a bound of quilts and coats—anything they could locate before leaving that morning.  "Big ceremony."

"She woulda been 'ere, you know," William offered, not at all helpfully but empty comfort was better than none. 

"Yeah."  The young Summers girl was staring out the window, hardly listening.  "I know.  I know real well."

"Any news from Wes?" Angel asked, poking Giles in the ribs.  

From the front, Willow flashed the Watcher a gaze of blunt warning.  "Ummm…we really shouldn't be talking about this now.  Remember…graduation equals happy day."

"In what alternate universe?" the elder vampire replied.  "I seem to remember a giant snake…"

"You guys should talk shop," Dawn said quietly.  "It's all right.  I know it's more important than me being Miss College USA."

"Honey, don't—"

"Well it is!" she barked, crashing recklessly against the seat.

"Ow!" came a Cockney voice from behind.

"Sorry," she muttered.  Violently, she turned to Willow, eyes flashing with the most life anyone had seen in days.  "I'm sorry if my sister's sudden desire to kill me and all of you doesn't weigh in on your priorities list.  It does mine.  I can't enjoy this.  I can't enjoy anything until this is all over."

"Dawnie, I didn't mean that," the Witch replied, her tone low and hurt.  "I just…academic success…whoopee…"

"Yeah…big whoopee."

There was a beat of respectful silence before Angel prodded Giles again.  "So?"

"Xander did not page me," the Watcher retorted, reaching to draw the contraption from his back pocket.  "I assume there have been no updates.  He knows to contact me as soon as possible.  Wesley has not been very…informative on when he plans to get into town."  He paused thoughtfully.  "I do hope everything went all right."

"We woulda heard by now," William said assuredly, though he hadn't the faintest idea who he was talking about.  "I'm sure Peaches's psychic bird woulda picked somethin' up 'f there'd been trouble."

"You never can know," his grand-sire replied.  "Sometimes it takes days—"

"Gettin' off the matter at hand," the younger interrupted quickly.  From beneath the coats, he shot Angel a look of pure warning.  They weren't to upset Dawn today.  "'Ey, Bit, where you fancy us treatin' you for supper?"

"I don't want to go anywhere," she replied dismally.  "Just home."

"Bull.  'S you're bloody graduation!" William nearly leapt forward with emphasis and was stopped by Angel before he could reach sunlight exposure.  Realizing his folly, he nodded in thanks, rolled his eyes, and continued.  "Nibblet, 'm not gonna let that thing ruin what oughta be the, well, in the top ten of all remarkable things that 'appen to you.  'F you don' choose an eatery, I bloody well will."

Both Giles and Angel tensed for a long second before barking, "Choose!" simultaneously.

"Very funny," the Cockney growled.

The elder vampire arched a brow.  "We were trying to be funny?"

"'Ey!  I 'ave bloody good taste in my munchies.  Tell 'im, Ripper."

"If we travel that route, Will," the old man jested,  "I doubt you will ever speak to me again." 

"You're pretty much runnin' that risk either way."

Something thundered in the front seat with the impact of a small explosion.  "Guys!  Stop!" Dawn cried.  "This is stupid.  I told you I don't want to go to dinner, and that's fucking final!"

A dreary silence settled over the occupants in the back.

"Bit," William said softly.  "She'd want you to go."

The young Summers girl folded her arms and sat back, sniffing loudly.  "I don't care."

"Yeah, you do.  'Course you do.  'F you din't care, you'd be namin' your favorite Joe's Diner right now."  He paused thoughtfully.  "She'd want you to live your life.  'F you don't, then that bloody Porphyria wins."

That was all it took.  The mention of the creature carrying her sister's face diminished any lingering reservations.  Out of the corner of her eye, Willow saw Dawn's expression harden with raw determination.  "Fine," she agreed, voice barely above a whisper.  "Let's go to…the Sunnydale Brewing Company."

"Don't think I'll let you drink, young lady," the Watcher warned.  "You might be eighteen and a high school graduate, but—"

"Like I would anyway!" she snapped.  "Honestly, Giles, if I wanted to drink, there'd be a thousand ways for me to get some real good booze.  But I don't, so forget it.  I like their cheeseburgers."  She sighed, calming.  "Then can we go to the Bronze?"

"Whatever you want, pet," William complied, perhaps too leniently.  His elder shot him a look of warning, but he refused to retract.

Another beat passed.  "And I want Faith to go."

That lent a long silence, understanding and mutually sympathetic.  Giles cleared his throat and sat forward.  "Dawn," he said slowly.  "She's best to go out patrol…or at the very least await Wesley's arrival."

"Buffy won't go hunting if she knows we're out," the girl replied.  "I want Faith there.  I want this over with."

"You can't mean that, Bit," William said, aching to break free of his temporary restraints and establish eye contact.  "Your sis's jus' a spell away.  I'd take care of the bloody bitch myself, but 'm not willin' to gamble losin' 'er.  We can't give up jus' yet."

"And how is she going to act if she does get her soul back?" Dawn demanded, tears springing to her eyes.  "Does _anyone _remember mopey Buffy?  The Buffy you tore from Heaven?  She was happy there…imagine what she'd be like when she remembers everything she did." Broadly, she motioned to the lump forming the shape of the elder vampire.  "Angel's been around for a bazillion years and he's still not over everything!"

"Hey," came the disgruntled retort.  "Give a guy a break.  I'm not _that _old."

"I'm sorry," she continued, shaking her head.  "She'll wish herself dead.  I don't want her to go through that."

"None of us do," the Watcher observed, sighing.  "But we must try.  For her sake."

Dawn was unmoved, inflexibility set in her voice that would not be wavered.  "I won't go out tonight unless Faith comes with us," she said.  _"That's _what Buffy would want."

The car pulled into 1630 Revello Drive—resolution determined without wavering fault.  The girl would simply not be persuaded, and no amount of rationalizing would alter that.  

William and Angel tore from the backseat and sprinted for the open doors, nearly knocking over Xander in the process.  The rest were slightly sluggish on the uptake.  Dawn said nothing to her friends as she entered.  With a look of isolated interest, she flung her cap and gown beside the coat rack and made the solemn march upstairs.

"Hey, shorty," Harris called after her.  "Major congrats are in order!  It's not every day you—"

"Save it," she replied shortly.  "Don't bother me until we leave." Her door slammed shut in somber warning of an unhappy disposition.

He blinked stupidly and glanced to the living room, where the two vamps were panting needlessly, still smoking from their recent close-encounter.  "Was it something I said?"

The Watcher and Willow closed the door behind him.  "No," Giles answered.  "Dawn's just upset that…Buffy wasn't there.  To see her graduate."

"Oh." Xander sighed.  "I was sorta hoping she'd forget that part."

Anya suddenly appeared from the kitchen, carrying a tray topped with layered cake and white icing.  "Happy Graduation!" she cried, then frowned once realizing the object of ceremony was nowhere in sight.  "You did remember to bring her home, didn't you?  Just because she's out of high school—"

"She's upstairs," Willow said quickly, nodding meekly to the platter.  "And I don't think she's in the mood for…well…anything."

The vengeance demon huffed disapprovingly, arms lowering.  "Well, there's gratitude for you," she muttered dejectedly.  "You spend all day—"

"Ahn, you went to the pastry shop."  Xander rolled his eyes before turning again to Giles.  "She mentioned something about leaving.  Are we leaving?  If so, where, and how much should I pack?"

"To dinner," Willow explained, narrowing her eyes as she scoped to the living room.  "Will had this _brilliant _idea that—"

"Oh, save it, Red," the platinum vampire scoffed.  "She can't stay up there forever.  An' we can't hide in 'ere till Watcher Boy decides to show.  What the Bit needs is some time outta the bloody house, an' with all 'f us there, it should make things right simple."

"We can't all go," Angel immediately countered, earning a dry look in response.  He balked.  "Well, we can't!  Someone has to stay here in case Wes calls."

All eyes fell to Xander.

"Hey, don't look at me!" he cried indignantly.  "I had to miss Dawnie's graduation!  I so do _not _deserve to miss the party."    

"What about Faith?" Anya volunteered.  

Giles shook his head.  "She is…adamant on bringing Faith with us.  I believe she is sporting for the chance that we might run into Buffy."  William cleared his throat.  "Or _Porphyria,_ whatever the bloody hell you call her.  And while her mind is not quite as…clear as one might aspire, she did make some insightful points in the car."

The Cockney stepped forward, brows domed in concern.  "You're not thinkin' 'bout listenin' to 'er, are you?  I gotta tell yeh, Ripper…Nibblet's full of hot air an' the like right now.  You give 'er back 'er sis an' it'll put the color back in 'er cheeks."

"I'm not sure if I'm prepared to be that selfish," the Watcher replied.  "We lack substantial evidence, but we all know that she has been feeding.  Buffy couldn't live with herself like that, and you know it."

Angel shook his head.  "No…I disagree."  All looked at him in blunt astonishment.  "What?  I'm not allowed to have a completely random opinion every now and then?  Buffy understands the difference between being souled and not being souled.  I should think everyone here would after what the past has taught us.  And while she may never accept what she did, she will come to understand that fundamentally it was not her fault.  She's not stupid, Giles."

"Once she thought she'd killed…oh-what's-'is-name…Warren's old flame," William said resourcefully, a look of understanding overwhelming him.  "It tore 'er apart.  She went to turn 'erself in an' I stopped 'er.  She beat me to a right bloody pulp, which was likely deserved, but I din't understand.  Not like I do now."  He glanced up.  "I won' stop till she's back, Ripper.  What 'appened wasn' her fault.  She was tryin' to save the sodding world.  She couldn't've known it would…what would 'appen."      

The Watcher heaved an exasperated breath.  "Will, I understand your—"

"No!  You bloody don't.  I won' let that thing tha's out there win!"  He started pacing, hands coursing through platinum strands, quaking in affect.  "I won' give up on 'er, get it?  I won' let 'er go without a fight.  I won' jus' quit.  I won' _abandon _'er.  For the second time in my unlife I wasn' quick enough to save 'er…not this time.  Not when there's still a chance."

"He's right," Xander agreed, stepping forward emphatically.  He didn't answer the questioning look he received for such a random spur of moral support.  "I regretted it before, but I won't again.  This isn't like when she died and was buried and we did the bad thing, G-Man.  Are you saying you're willing to give Angel and Spike a second chance, but for Buffy there's just no hope?  If they can stomach what they've done, then she sure as hell can.  She's worth more than both of them put together."

William stepped out of pace and moved forward, his outrage calming, but not by much.  A sigh tremored through his body.  "I don' fancy gettin' in spats with you, Ripper.  'Specially 'bout morality an' the like.  But I can't see eye-to-eye with you on this one."

The Watcher heaved a breath of concession, removing his glasses.  "I can respect that," he decided.  "You made some valid points, but I can't say for certain that I agree.  There are some things you don't simply get over or _stomach."_  He looked up and replaced the bifocals on the bridge of his nose.  "However, if it is a matter between us and…Porphyria, then I will grant my pardon.  It isn't fair that Buffy should die for actions that were…"

"Not 'er fault?"

"Yes."

"Where's Faith?" Angel asked.

"Out getting food," Xander replied.  "We got kinda bored playing UNO."

The elder vampire nodded.  "Well, I hate to tell you this, but you better stay here again tonight.  Anya'll have to stay to."

The vengeance demon frowned.  "Hey!  What did I do?"

"If Wes calls, you'll have to pick him up.  It's better if you go out there with someone who can fend."  He motioned broadly.  "Willow will come with us.  Should something happen, she'll need to get Giles and Dawn back home."

Harris looked positively forlorn.  "Twice?  I'm being dumped twice in one day?  Have you no heart?" 

"It's for the best."  

The Witch's lower lip was trembling.  With great trepidation, she stepped forward and commanded Angel's gaze.  "Do you really think something's going to happen?  Maybe we should postpone this until—"

"If we're out, she'll come to us," he answered.  "And if she comes to us, that means she's not somewhere else.  That means someone else is still alive.  One less person to feel guilty about once all of this is over."  

"An' we all need to be there," William offered.  "Well, least me, that Faith bird, an' Peaches.  Notta one of us would be able to hold 'er alone."

"Buffy has super-human strength," Anya observed.  Everyone shot her a dubious glance and she rolled her eyes, shrugging in concession.  "Fine.  She's _always _had super-human strength.  Let's take time to laugh at the demon.  Go ahead!"  When no one moved, she shook her head and continued.  "What I'm saying is…Slayer plus vamp…versus two vamps and another slayer?  Do you guys think you can hold her without one of you getting…oh, let's say, staked?  I might be wrong, but I think she'd be more upset about killing someone she loved than a perfect stranger."

"Even that's debatable," Giles said softly.  "But she does have a point."

"Well, that's why we're all going together."  Angel took a step forward.  "Strength in numbers."

"Very well."  The Watcher sighed heavily and paced away.  "I cannot stop you.  When do you think we should leave?"

"After sundown, naturally," William retorted.  "I don' particularly fancy sharin' a bloody blanket with Peaches again."

Twilight came quicker than anyone realized, though due to summer, the days were impossibly longer.  It was any vampire's nightmare: waiting an additional two hours before treading the hunting grounds. Around seven that evening, Willow crept into Dawn's room and shook her awake.  The poor girl had fallen to sleep by the sounds of her own sorrow.  Dried patches of former wetness coated her face.  Once she was somewhat coherent, the Witch explained that they would be leaving soon.  

"I'm drivin'," William announced as they headed for the front door.

"No, you're not." Giles snatched the keys from his grasp.  "I have had the unfortunate experience of riding with you before.  I remember exactly how well you navigate a vehicle."

"Oh come on.  That was of the then."

"Yes, well, this is now.  _I'm _driving."

Willow grinned lightly as she slipped between them.  The Watcher turned to close the door, and called in finality to Xander, "My pager will be on.  If Wesley calls—"

"Beep you.  I know the drill."

"Hey, Harris!"  Faith poked her head around the doorframe.  "Want me to bring ya'll somethin'?"

He offered a weak, put-on smile.  "No.  The hearty dose of good ole McDonalds really did me in.  Thanks for the offer."

She shrugged.  "Whatever.  Your loss."

The door closed with a note of finale, though the verdict would not arrive indefinitely until the car pulled out of the driveway.  Xander watched them disconsolately and flopped down on the couch beside Anya, who was preoccupied with her nails while pretending to be interested in the evening news.

"Ahn?"

"Hmm?"

"Up for a round of UNO?"

*~*~*

The night started off slow but progressed with promising sanguinity.  Dawn's mood remained unchanged throughout the majority of dinner, despite Faith and William's attempts to cheer her up—which consisted in numerous successions of making complete fools of themselves.  It was Angel's heart-rending toast about the accomplishments obtained through the earning of a diploma that ultimately did her in.  He was puzzled but pleased—more over with his childe's enthusiastic pat on the back as he took his seat.

"Now," William said between chuckles.  "Why din't I think of that?"

He decided not to mention that the speech had been issued in the mindset of the utmost enormity.  Whatever he had said, it made a face that had not seen a titter in over a week burst into long, hard giggles.  That was all the motivation he required.  

The Bronze was one of those places that one never tired of.  For over ten years, they had enjoyed the music, endured the food, and lived out some of the more climactic stages of their lives while competing over raging amplifiers.  It was the club designed for all generations.  

The night, despite contradictions, had surprisingly passed without serious corollary.  After dissolving that first time, it was difficult keeping Dawn from enjoying herself.  She demanded William twirl her around on the dance floor a time or two and somehow talked him into posing for a picture with Angel.  No one had any serious fixation on how long her good spirits would last, thus humoring her became imperative. 

It was well past midnight before any could wear the strain on the teenager's random spurt of energy.  

"Oh, come, on you guys!" she cried when Giles announced it was time to retire.  "It's early!"

"Once upon a time, I woulda agreed with you, Bit," William observed, fighting sleep with every worn nerve in his body.  "But Ripper the Wanker's 'ad me on regular people schedule for years now."

Giles tried to think of a snazzy comeback, but all he could produce was a long yawn.

"This is so unfair," the girl pouted.  "You get me out of the house, pump me full of caffeine, and call it quits?  You…you…"

"The kid's gotta point," Faith interjected.  "It's what…after one?  And ya'll are hanging it up already?  Come on!  There's fun to be had out there!  I haven't been partying since—"

"The last time you had fun," Angel said softly, "things went a little…well, maybe we shouldn't talk about it."

"And hell-o.  _So _not a kid, here!  High school graduate equals big responsible adult!  I mean…" She fumbled into her purse to produce her driver's license, unused as it was.  The Summers girls were cursed with the inability to successfully pilot any moving vehicle.  "It says right here.  I'm eighteen.  I could…I could rent porn and smoke if I wanted to."

Faith grinned madly.  "Oh, she's become a wild child!  Hold on to your seats, ladies and gents.  I—"

"Can we gag her?" Willow whispered to Giles, who shrugged sleepily.  

They were huddled in a fairly large crowd.  It being late, the streets of Sunnydale were all but abandoned.  Even the mischievous sprites were taking the night off.  The sort of evening Buffy would have loved.  Nowhere to go, nothing to slay, nothing to do but party.

It was that genus of poignancy, spoken or not, that lowered the morale.

"No news from Wes, I'm guessing," Angel said softly when the silence became too thick. 

"If Wesley had I arrived, I would have gone back a long time ago."  The Watcher shook his head and took off his glasses.  "I'm getting too old for this sort of thing."

The vampire smiled lightly and moved to make a reply, but William grasped him by the shoulder with such blunt, cold fervor that he felt his legs turn to granite.  He didn't have to look to know what caught the younger's attention.  It was there; laid out for them in all glorious understanding.  The final reproach to a long day's wages.

At the other end of the street stood Porphyria.  Porphyria who was not Buffy.  _Buffy_ who was so far from herself it was near impossible to look at those eyes from any distance and read the compassion once locked therein.  She was far enough for someone to place a mileage sign between her and her intended, and still, she was easy to read.

Then she spoke, and even through their distance, her words were as articulate as if she had been standing alongside them.  

"I knew…" The voice she used was foreign, even more so than it had been the night before.  Cold and wrought without pity.  Without remorse.  Without knowing or kindness of any sort.  "I knew if I wandered around long enough, I'd find you out here somewhere."

Faith was already reaching for the stakes concealed up either sleeve.  William patted Dawn on the shoulder and steered her in Willow's direction.  "You get 'er outta 'ere," he said sternly.  "I don' know wha's about to go down, but 's nothin' for 'er to see."

Porphyria was nearing, step by step, clearly in no hurry.  Her hands were concealed piously behind her back, a look of presumed innocence washing over ruthless features.  "Mmm…how deliciously predictable.  Go on, Spike.  Save the girl.  We all know how good you are at that.  How…quick."

"Cheap shot, bitch."

"What's to stop me from taking her now?  You?"  She arched an eyebrow at the elder.  "Angelus?  I don't see any crossbows nearby."

"They don't need one," Faith observed.  "I'm here."

"Oh…right.  The true sign of desperation.  'Let's call the mental slayer.'  Peachy idea!"  Porphyria's eyes flashed wickedly.  "And still…all things considered…would you be so cruel to keep me from my sister on her graduation day?  I got her something _really _cool."

"Willow," Angel said softly.  "You and Giles, get her out of here now."

"Yes, Dawnie.  Run.  Run far."  The crazed woman took another step forward, her arms falling to her side in revealing lack of any convention weapon.  "Big sis has some things to discuss with the naughty vampires.  They've been bad.  Very bad."  Her eyes shot upward, glimmering maliciously.  "Bad Angel.  Bad Spike.  Bad, bad Spike.  You know—"

"That is immaterial!" Giles yelled, and William shot him a look of warning.  

Porphyria chuckled at his expense.  "Oh, and my Watcher.  So loyal to the evil vampire.  My Watcher.  My very own pet Watcher.  I'll get to you in a minute."

"No you won't." Angel turned desperately to Willow.  "Get them out of here."

"I'm getting, I'm getting."  The Witch took Dawn by the arm and pulled amidst her struggles.  Giles assumed position at her other side.  When Porphyria tried to intercept, a wave of blunt, powerful magic fired in her direction and sent her flying to the pavement.  

"It should hold her!" Willow screamed as she directed the others to the car.  "But not for long.  You guys—"

"Get outta 'ere, Red!" William yelled back at her.  "Now!"

There was no want of negotiation in his tone.  Anyone could read that.  

Then they were gone, and it was just the four of them.  

"That hurt," Porphyria said, climbing to her feet.  "And you sent her away.  Not exactly the best tactical move."

"Leave the damn vamps out of this for a minute," Faith barked, raising a stake to eye level in emphasis.  "It's between you and me, B.  Occupational hazard of becoming one of the non-pulsers community."

She cackled at the insinuation.  "What, and you can take me?  I remember you being impulsive, not stupid."

"Who can say?  I'm a slow learner."

"The slowest.  We can agree on that."

"I might surprise you.  Come on, bitch.  Gimme all you got."

Angel stepped forward on inclination.  "You might wanna—"

"Step outta this Peaches," William advised.  "Neither's gonna listen to you now."

Porphyria nodded, brows arching.  "The first thing he's said in days to make sense.  Listen, Angelus.  If you can just wait your turn, I'll get around to killing you here in a few, okay?  This shouldn't take long."

Faith's eyes flickered.  "Yeah, boys.  Leave us alone.  Gotta have some girl time.  Slayer to Slayer.  Ya'll wouldn't understand."

Then she charged.


	37. Fallen

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

Xander was standing outside when the car pulled up.In all the years of their acquaintance, none had seen him so anxious.He looked to have worn his nails to a fine point from continual gnawing."It's almost two in the goddamn morning!What happened?!"

"Buffy happened," Willow replied.She nearly knocked over with the impact of Dawn's swift evacuation.The girl didn't look to anyone; merely rushed into the house where she would presumably lock herself in her room for the rest of the week."We were about to go home and…well, she was there."

"Oh." Anya stepped onto the portico, features fashioned with apprehension."And Angel?And Spike?I suppose they're…doing something.Fighting her."

"Faith," Giles gasped, still trying to catch his breath."Lord, I've never run so fast in my life."

"She'd been following us," the Witch said softly, a look of dumbstruck horror filling her eyes."She had to have been.All night.Just waiting for a time to strike."

"Yeah," Xander agreed. "I'd say so.And Dawnie was just betting on it, wasn't she?"

The phone rang inside the house.No one paid attention for a long minute.When the person refused to take the hint, Anya rolled her eyes and retreated indoors.

"They won't kill her…they can't."Giles was staring at a crack in the driveway."But…God, if something happens to one of them, I don't…William…I don't know what I'll do.What _he'll _do.He's going to feel…awful.He had the chance to—"

Willow shook her head, tears brimming her eyes.She had never cried so much in her life as she had this past month."He did what he thought was right.That's all that matters.Buffy wasn't able to kill Angel when he went all…all bad before, either.It happens."

"This isn't like that," Xander noted hoarsely."This isn't _Angel._This is Buffy.This is…"

"I know that," she said."I just don't know what the right thing is anymore."

A line crossed formerly against the Watcher's mouth."None of us do.It's—"

"Wesley!" The impact of Anya's shriek was enough to have every dog in Sunnydale answering her aptly time exclamation.Then she was thundering through the house (something crashed that sounded remarkably like one of Joyce Summers's prized lamps, but no one thought to comment), panting for breath in the doorway.

"It's Wesley," she gasped needlessly."He's on the plane.Says he's landing in a half hour."

*~*~*

It was not uncommon for all sorts of hell to be raised on the streets of Sunnydale long into the hours of night.The town wrote off such occurrences as others might drive-bys and muggings of the elderly.That wasn't to say the Hellmouth didn't receive its share of the norm, but for any such crime to transpire was reflected with more bewilderment than the occasional midget in a bikini who reportedly died after being attacked by a pack of angry demonic pygmies.

To a tourist, the streets would appear barren.A couple of kids entangled in some brawl, perhaps.Probably over money, drugs — likely both.

Then again, Sunnydale didn't get many tourists.

In the still of the night, in accordance with the laws of nature as they applied to the town, Porphyria crashed to the ground with a callous thump.She was on her feet in an instant, grinning maniacally and drawing the back of her wrist against her split lip.

"You've sharpened that punch," she observed.

Faith advanced, twirling a stake idly between her fingers.Her eyes were dead and menacing.There was simply nothing left."I've sharpened a thing or two more.Wanna see?"

"Your wit obviously not being one of them."The vampire lunged, lashing viciously without any true intention of aim.They flipped to opposite sides of the street, uncharacteristically patient in motive.Porphyria smiled in cold scrutiny. "Where'd your cheerleaders run off to?"

"Dunno, don't care."Faith ran for her in a swift jump kick.The connection was blissful though brief.In the next instant, she found herself on the ground, jaw aching in stern result.

"Oh, is that so?"The crazed vampire leaned over her forebodingly, taking a handful of hair and forcing her head upward."Then I suppose this is going to be all the more easy."

"Yeah, that avidity thing never left, did it?"Fiercely, the Slayer freed herself with a quick backward head bunt, rolling to her feet with alarming haste.She assumed her stance and flickered an eyebrow in assurance."You're getting slow there, girl," she commented."Had the perfect chance to snap my neck in two."

"But we're having so much fun."Porphyria broke for her, delivering a harsh kick to her midsection.Faith huffed with the impact of the blow and sailed directly into the office store behind her.Debris cracked and fell, but not enough to account any severe damage.Nothing beyond what the townspeople were used to."I didn't think you'd want it over so soon."

"And you don't?" Faith climbed up."Thought you wanted to play with the boys."

"What girl wouldn't?" the vampire retorted skeptically."Hell, even _Willow _has the hots for Spike.It's disturbing, actually.But they're not here, hon — mmm…suspicious much? — and you are."

"Lucky me."

"I was really hoping you'd say that."

Things were going in accordance with their carefully planned arrangement.In honesty, Faith had no idea where William and Angel had disappeared to, but she was glad they had.She knew they were near, watching likely — her spider sense allotted that much recognition.It had been a while, of course, but that was not the sort of thing a slayer simply forgot.She had felt Buffy's proximity all night and had not spoken up.It was one of those tricks she learned during incarceration — the magic of patience.Of waiting for the hunter to come to _you._

_ _

Of course, she hadn't listened all _that_ well.

A roar pierced through the otherwise soundless night, and she knew that playtime was over.

Porphyria came for her in a mix of blows and low kicks.All hell unleashed, merciless and vindictive.It seemed she was everywhere at once, scratching chunks of skin through layers of black fabric.Flesh tore and nails dug, and Faith denied herself a cry of pain.The vampire kneed her viciously, then swung and kicked her back.Again, she found herself consigned against the pavement, the taste of blood filling her mouth.

And yet she was unmoved.

"Oh come on, Faith!" the demon bantered."You asked for a fight.Give me one!"

A stake slid out of the slayer's sleeve.The other was lost somewhere down a drainage pipe.She wasn't even aware that had she released it until her hand fumbled for something to grasp.Wearily, she rose once more.

She wondered if Angel could see her.

Porphyria arched a brow."Again with the stake?That's getting a little old."

"It's your death warrant, bitch."

"Oh.Real threatening."A smile cracked across her lips."Everyone's doing the same number.I know they're not going to do _squat._You big bad group of frauds!"In amusement, she turned around, willfully allowing Faith the time and opportunity to strike from behind.It was a chance taken, and once again she was kicked to the ground."You're losing it, girl," the vampire informed her."I think prison made you a little soft.In the old days, I'd be hurting at _least _a little.Emphasis on little."

Again, she raised the stake, surprisingly not deigning herself to attempt a legitimate comment."I'll do it," Faith said warningly, the pinnacle of seriousness."Believe me, I've wanted an excuse for a long fucking time.Don't try to give me one now."

"Hon, I _am _the excuse.If you don't know that, you never knew anything about being the Slayer."The stake was thrown with deadly accuracy in the vampire's direction — an easy block with the right maneuvers.Porphyria dropped to the ground and rolled toward her, on her feet again before she could react. "I can see why they brought me back from the dead, if _you _were the alternative."

Faith swung blindly and connected with a moment of brilliant victory.It wasn't about winning then; it was about retribution.The punch was powerful enough to knock the Buffy-creature off balance, but otherwise left her unmoved.Before she could rise to her feet, the Slayer charged, pinning her to the ground with a series of blows.Each clout did little to wave the tide in her favor, but it felt nice to seize control for one blessed second.

Then she sailed across the street once more when Porphyria kicked her off, climbing irately to a firm stand.

"Well," the vampire drawled, dusting herself off."That was brash."

Faith pushed herself off the asphalt meekly, and found the wind knocked out of her the next minute.The vampire grasped her by the shirt collar and forced through the glass door of some nameless shop.Alarms sounded needlessly, filling the night with forlorn cries of impending foreshadow.

Porphyria grasped a piece of jagged glass and drew a deep gash into the Slayer's side.The scent of fresh blood engulfed the air — enticingly thick.She slurped hungrily, kicking the girl away with fluent simplicity.Then she was advancing; watching her opponent struggle against the deluges of injury and fatigue.

The power was unimaginable.

Sounds echoed in the distance.The cavalry was coming.Time ran short.

But there was no reason to rush this…

The vampire grasped her victim by the scruff of the neck, heaving her to her feet.Faith gasped in the first exhibition of pain.It was a delicious sound.Porphyria grinned tightly in self-constructed satisfaction before throwing her to the ground once more.That was fun — playtime with the rag doll.The poor girl wasn't even putting up a fight anymore.

How very disappointing.

This was the last.She grasped Faith by her injured side and dug her fingers into soft throes of broken flesh.Faith screamed her pain and attempted to writhe, but her efforts only tunneled the vampire's hand further inward.Porphyria withdrew in her own good time, licking her bloodstained skin clean and smacking in satisfaction.

"Mmm, mmm good."

She arched her foot at the back of the Slayer's neck and waited.

"I always knew you couldn't handle it."

Twist.Crunch.Stillness.

A war cry sounded through air, pained and infuriated.Alas, the endorsement ran a few seconds too late.Porphyria shrugged simply before Angel pinned her to the ground in lasting strain of all remaining patience.

She cackled against the pavement."So sweet, really.So sad.You really oughta work on your timing, lover."

William appeared from behind with a terrific roar as he burst into game face.The elder vampire hoisted her to her feet and allowed him his reprisal.It was minimal, but enough.Glibly, Porphyria strained herself forward, kicking him to the other side of the street and grabbing Angel by the upper arm, flipping him over and forcing him to the ground.

"I'm beginning to think the three of you should have tried me at the same time," she said thoughtfully."Too bad you under-estimated just how well I can fend.And now look what you've gone and done to poor Faith."

The elder growled, vamping uncontrollably.In a flash of blind outrage, he lunged in firm attack, knocking her backward with full affects of consequential sting.The Cockney was next — leaping forward and back-fisting her before she could climb to her feet.

It was a moment of well-timed proportion, but nothing more.Porphyria bounded to a stance again, the full of her demon coming out in blazing consequence.She roared and charged, ducking Angel's furious swing with a backward kick that rendered him immediately to the ground.

She turned her attention to William, eyes gleaming spitefully.There was nothing to reflect behind his gaze.Nothing but stern, unabated hatred."Oh, don't be like that," she berated."Just because I've joined your stupid 'Slayer of Slayers' club.I wasn't aware the membership was limited to one."

"I'll rip your bloody throat out."

"Oh.More death threats?I told Faith as much, but she didn't listen: those are getting really old."She licked her lips suggestively."How a bit more _show _rather than the _tell._I'm not much for men who are all talk and no action."

"You want action, bitch?'Ere it comes."

Porphyria's eyes flickered.And he lunged.

It was a moment of delayed brilliance.A spark of sudden divinity that only occurs to those in the heart of decent battle.Her eyes lit up with enthusiasm, and with haste, she ducked and moved away, dropping with predatory instinct and tripping him with a quick swing of intuition.From behind, she heard Angel rustling to his feet, but that could not be allowed.Without taking her eyes away from the peroxide vampire, she moved backward and issued a powerful kick to the back of the elder's skull.

Then it was just the two of them.

Porphyria roared and ran for him, slashing claws at his throat, her other hand shooting between his legs.How he did it she would never know, but somehow William managed to grasp both wrists within a hair of contact, twisting her until she was on the ground, his kneecaps fitting grooves into her back.He reached to grasp her jaw, but she wrenched herself free with a sudden outburst of unprecedented power.Her hands enclosed around his arms and she flipped him over her head with cold harshness.Then he was cradled mockingly between her thighs, and she ran her hands through bleached locks of hair.

"After all this time," she cooed, "still a lover, not a fighter."

"Shootin' blindly, pet?Not losin' your ever-blessed confidence, are we?"

"Oh no, baby.I'm just getting started."

William tore out her reach viciously, pivoted and backhanded her, though there was little feeling behind it.Resolve was weakening, and she knew it.It was the worst form of power.The mocking hold one had over the other's affection, no matter how much of that spurned from hate.

In the next instant, she was on her feet as well, diving forward in a well-versed handstand, her ankles enclosing around his throat.She tossed him over once more with a joyous strain of authority.He grunted but made no sound of notable pain.With a dissatisfied rumble, she bent to her feet, turned and kicked him down again.

"I get the feeling you're not giving me your all, Spike," she hissed.

"Get bent."His voice lacked conviction.

"Oh, did I forget to mention how much you pissed me off the other day?" Porphyria circled him, arms folded pretentiously, jerking a sharp punt to his abdomen whenever he tried to sit up."That entire crossbow stunt…what nerve!You know, you could have really done some damage, and then where would we be?You miss me the way I was_,_ _pet, _and yet you came within a hair of losing your precious Buffy forever."

"I don' miss when I don' mean to."Again he tried to sit up.Again she made it impossible.

"And coming to Angel's rescue…talk about a shocker.I was about to do what you've always lacked the nerve to, anyway.He wasn't fun anymore.No playtime for Mr. Tall Dark And Boring.Or is that Brooding?I can never remember.I was gonna get rid of him for you, nice and quick."She leaned down, breathing a long, cold string of air into his ear."There was a time you would have paid to see that."

William's obstinacy hardened."Like I said, luv…tha's my job.Always 'as been.I 'ad this entire thing worked out with Dru from the very beginnin'.An' I tell yeah, 'f you 'ad wanted to kill bloody Peaches, you 'ad plenty of chances."

"Such stunning impracticality."Without warning, she reached and found the object of her previous intention, squeezing him tightly and eliciting a groan of both pain and pleasure.It was a wondrous feeling."To think, Spike," she murmured thoughtfully."I offered you everything."

"You said a few fancy words in a voice that doesn' belong to you."He coughed and attempted failingly to wan her away."'Sides, 'f you go to such lows for the sake of Peaches, I wouldn't want to touch you with a…how's that song go?Thirty-nine an' a half foot pole?You're a bloody a two-buck whore.Better places for my two bucks."

Wrong thing to say when someone literally had you by the balls.Porphyria's fist clinched restrictively, her eyes flashing in a spark of fury.William couldn't hold it in; a long scream tore from his lips.It sounded through the empty streets with mocking regularity.There was no one to hear.All residents knew enough to stay indoors.Even the police wouldn't deign to show.

The alarm from the shop was still sounding in all its annoying shrillness.And still no one answered.

"And you," she hissed finally, her grip tightening once before she released him, "are the sorriest excuse of a vamp who didn't have it in him to please me.Only when I _didn't _want your filthy fucking hands on me would you give me half the good battle I was looking for.I'm sorry, how deaf are you?You can only scream, _'No please!'_ in so many languages."Once more she leaned down beside his ear, punctuating each last word with a sharpened breath of derisive emphasis."You. Filthy. Rapist."

That was it.The pinnacle of all offense.William screamed and flipped over, the last remnants strength returning to worn muscles.In an affront of all enduring energy, he growled and attempted to leap forward, but was held in tight deference to the ground by the force of her leather-clad foot.

"I knew that would raise a response," she quipped.A stake was in her hand; a stake purloined from Faith's unmoving body.When…he didn't know.It no longer seemed to matter.The reminder of the Slayer's death propelled wafting miscellany scents of residual blood in his direction.He shuddered in spite himself, growled, and attempted to fight to his feet once more.

There would be no missing this time.Porphyria's eyes flashed meaningfully and she arched to meet him halfway, weapon vaulted for its target with expert marksmanship.His eyes widened in a sudden rush of realism, and in a hurry, he turned in the fruitless effort to battle his way to safety.

He was not quick enough…

_Death is at your heels, baby…_

…and yet the strike never came.Where there should have been a quick implosion of dusty vampiric bits, a loud gasp strained instead.A throaty cry for help, bred in any language.Under any regime — he would know that call and act just as naturally.The reaction was immediate; he didn't give himself time to reconsider.It was as natural as breathing was to humans, a motion etched in the very spirit of humanism.With surprisingly velocity, he turned and lurched forward, grasping her in his arms as the stake dropped anticlimactically to the ground.A flash of knowledge and understanding…then it was over.

She was panting heavily, clutching to him like the world would tear her away.No want of feeling coursed through him; he dared not exhibit an inkling of relief.And despite his better senses, he cradled her to him, calming her; aware at any minute the rage could burn again.

But he knew.He knew deep down it was not so.

The strength behind her grip wavered as realization set in.The authenticity of her surroundings.The body that cradled her with such protective fervor, despite the heat of battle only a few minutes before.

She spoke.Hesitant.Fearful.Tired.

"Sp…Wi…Will?"

It was the sweetest thing he had ever heard, and it filled every inch of his aching soul with more than liberation.There were no words to describe such blissful sensationalism.The world was void of poetry.Nothing touched the brink ecstasy.Nothing could hope to touch him ever again.His eyes watered, and he rocked her gently, unable to stop himself."Shhhh, luv," he said disarmingly."'S all right now.'S all right."

Buffy shuddered and clutched him tightly, burying her face in the warmth of his shirt.

"'S over, my love.'S all over now."

Then she burst into tears.There was nothing beyond that.The bittersweet taste of sorrow and penance that drown away the blood in her throat.She held onto him with aching desperation, craving the reassurance he could not offer.

And for the life of everything good and pure in the world, for the sobs wracking her body into a thousand tremors of painful resistance, she couldn't stop crying.


	38. Come What May

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

** **

** **

He laid her on the stone tenderly, brushing locks of hair from her face.Dried tears crusted against paling skin, and while she tried to hold it inward, her lungs couldn't help but pump for air.In all the long years of his life, he couldn't imagine an image more beautiful.

She was shivering, but there was not much anyone could offer a shivering vampire, especially in accommodations such as these.The duster she wore even in darkness was wound tightly to her body.He sat beside her, watching with heavy eyes.It would take time, he understood.Lord knows it had taken him long enough.

She was still crying.

William drew in a breath and neared precariously.There was no sure one way to advance, but he wouldn't allow her to weep all night.Revelations forbade such cruelty.He knew well her torment, and the need for whatever reparation the world had to offer.But no.He loved her too much to sit aside and watch.

Hesitantly, he reached for her, hand soft against her shoulder."Buffy?"

Her withdraw was sharp and aggressive; a swift jerk that pulled beyond his reach.The blue of her eyes flashed dangerously."Don't touch me!Keep away!"

An immediate though reluctant extract.He nodded and reeled his arm back ritualistically to his side."Whatever you want.I'm 'ere, luv.Talk to me when you feel like it."

For long minutes, all he could do was observe in the midst of gut-wrenching grief.It was so hard watching her cry and not being in the position to comfort.He schooled himself to stillness, hands forming tight fists in the will not to break his restraint and take her into his arms.There were no words that would make the world go away. There were no reassurances that all would be well.It was him and her: there together for as long as time allowed.As long as she needed before the inevitable release.

Every sob wore down his last strains of resolve.

When tremors began seizing possession of her body beyond the brink of control, he could stand it no longer.By instinct, he pulled her into his embrace amidst her struggles and cries of protest.It didn't take much; once her head found his shoulder, she wrapped her arms around him in a hug so firm any normal man would have passed out for lack of circulation.

"There," he said softly."'S all right.'S all right now."

"No!It's not!" she cried, pulling away to see his eyes, wiping the tears from her face in an effort that was determinately fruitless.It killed him a thousand times over to see the anguish her features held.The look of forewarning that bade him from conceivably belonging anywhere else. And she dissolved.Whether by looking at him, or seeing what wasn't there to reflect in the pits off his eyes, he did not know.Strenuous sobs choked out of her throat, laced with words nearly beyond the threshold of comprehension."Oh God!I'm so sorry, Will!I'm sorry!I'm sorry!I'm sorry!I'm sorry!"

The outburst was so mockingly familiar that he felt like staking himself.

"It wasn' your fault, pet."

"Then whose was it?I've killed, Spike.I've been feeding on humans for days!"Another onslaught of tears washed down her swollen cheeks."You should have killed me.Run me through with that crossbow when you had the chance."

William shook his head, thumb flickering strains of moisture from her face."I couldn't do that," he said softly."Not while there was any measure of hope that I could get you back."

"This isn't about you!" Buffy spat."Or you…_having_ me in any form.This is…how can I live with myself?What is there for me now?"

"There's you," he replied with breathtaking simplicity.The sort of conception that one arrives at and is never told."Luv, you 'ad no way of knowin' what would 'appen, else you woulda let yours truly through the bloody Gate.You did it out of love…for everyone."

"It's not that easy," the Slayer retorted bitterly, shaking her head."I never pretended to make it that easy for you, or for Angel, or anyone.I'll _never…_I could have killed them!The things I did…what I _said._Faith.Oh God…Faith.I—"

"You can't blame yourself for any of it.This isn't like before."William heaved a sigh."'F there 'aden't been an inklin' of hope, I woulda done you in.Real good, too.I wouldn't let that thing 'urt the Nibblet, or Red, or hell, even Peaches.Couldn't."Delicately, he placed his hand over her unbeating heart."I know you.That Porphyria, or whatever we called 'er…it wasn' you.Not in any form."He released a long breath.This was simply too much for even him to endure.The night was endless and he prayed only to wake and find this all not a dream.She looked and felt real, but the mind was a cruel, mocking device.It willed one to see what was desired — not what was actually there.

This he knew from devastatingly catastrophic experience.

Buffy shook her head again in fierce denial."The same way you're _not _Spike?Get over yourself, Will!I said some very wrong things…too many…but that wasn't one of them." She wiped her eyes irately."Don't give me that.I know…a part of it…I've been watching you ever since you got back.And yeah, I admit, in many ways, you're not him.You're not him enough not to _be _him.You got that part, sure.You're the poet, he's the demon…but you need each other to survive.You…don't look at me like that!You know it's true!"A choke stifled her throat."And now look what I've done!God, Will!_Look at what I've done!"_

"What you did.Yeh.Bad stuff.All the way 'round.Horrible.Nasty.Pet: It Wasn't You.That thing…I'd've known.You should, too.The same way you can love Peaches but not Angelus.You know the bloody difference.One is a killer, the other is an annoyin' poofter. There's one an' the other, baby." He grasped her roughly by the shoulders and allotting her already-trembling form one good shake."Sure, luv.Yeh got _me.__I'm_ bleeding William the Bloody Awful Poet _an'_ that stupid git who din't know when to stop.One vamp outta a thousand.What I got doesn' apply to you.You never woulda done the things you did.Never.You don' have the stones, remember?I'd know it.By God, I'd know it."

"I…" But there was nothing to say.Nothing to do but nod in dismal acceptance.Her eyes were drained of all tears.A rasping choke clogged her throat, demanding to be bypassed."Everything," she said hoarsely, a note having fallen in bland realization, "that I ever said to you.You as Spike.About being pure evil…and…"

"Don' even finish that thought, luv," he growled."'S not fair to judge yourself based on wha's 'appened."

"Oh, fuck what's fair!" Buffy cried._"I _was never fair.Never.Even when I admitted I was wrong, even when I apologized.I knew it but I never understood.Never.Not like…" She trailed off, as though first taking account of their surroundings."Where are we?"

He brushed clumps of falling hair from her face."After the street…what 'appened…I woke Peaches up 'an told 'im to buzz off.To tell the others how it all went down.I brought you back to…that night, that firs' night.Remember?The night we 'ad?"

"When I was hurt and you recited your poetry?"If she could have, despite context, she would have flushed."Or the _other _night we had?"

At that, he grinned.A small, sad grin."Right the first time.I brought you 'ere to fix you up.Granted, you weren't cut up too bad, but a lil help couldn't hurt.I din't think you'd…be ready."

"To see them?"

"Yeh." William looked down, hand sliding down her cheek to rest peacefully at her shoulder."Did I do right?"

Buffy nodded, expelling a long twine of air."How will I face them?" she asked softly."After everything…how can I?"

"You din't 'urt a one of 'em.I saw to that."

"But the things I said!All the horrible things…" Her face blanked with ghastly recognition."Oh…Dawn.Dawnie.I almost…I…"

"She'll understand.They all will."

"It's not a matter of _understanding, _Spike.They love me and I know they always will.I know that in the end…but…"

A poignant comprehension settled over him, and with a sigh of reasoning, he admitted the truth into acceptance."'S about you forgivin' you, innit, pet?'S not about them at all."

Her eyes glossed over with tears once more, though she thought there was no motivation for extended sorrow."The people I…and Faith.I killed Faith.She was here to help and I—"

"Again…we've danced this dance before.It wasn' you, pet."

"But—"

"In any regard, she was attackin' you.'F you aden't killed 'er, she woulda you in a heartbeat."It was a long shot, but he felt compelled to try.The look he received was unfeeling, almost cold, and he immediately regretted releasing the words.However, that didn't prevent him from constructing an ill-conceived justification."Think about it, pet.She woulda done it.I knew the minute I laid eyes on 'er.Sod redemption an' gettin' you back an' the like…she said she wouldn't but I knew.That bird was out for blood."

"It's her job, Spike!" she spat."She's…she's a slayer.I'm a vampire.An out of control vampire that was… And I killed her."

"Tha's jus' somethin'…you're stronger than this, Buffy.You've been around it too long…but 's a part of the soul-'avin' gig.'F things 'ad gone differently, y'wouldn't 'ave ever considered what 'appened 'ere.You know that, an' I know that—"

The Slayer shook her head vehemently."God, you're such a hypocrite.Listen to yourself!What have I been telling you since you came back?You had no concept of difference!You wouldn't hear a word of what I had to say.And now that it's the other way around…you can't _expect _so much of me, Will.I speak it, but hell, I can't take it."That much was true, and a flash of burdened guilt shimmied up his spine in result.It wasn't fair to put such pressure on her.He simply couldn't bear to see her suffering the long-winded pains of self-hatred.On her, the color was awkward and unneeded.Despite everything, there was no way she deserved that torture."And you know what kills me…what _really _kills me?You!Let me…I was…I never was fair.Never.To feel such blackness and reject it.Why is it _you _got the entire 'right and wrong' thing?Why did _you _care?"Tears were coming again.They both thought they were beyond crying, but the sight of one's grief did the other in."And…all I could feel was hate!And the want to destroy everything good.And…how could you get love from that?How could you fight beyond what…_how did you do it, Will?_How?It's not fair!"

William grasped one of her flailing arms and jerked her to him roughly, forcing her eyes to his."You 'ave any idea how many years I spent killin' an' feedin' an' doin' things jus' because it sounded like good ole fun?Don' ever think I was different from any of the others. Not a one of 'em.Even when…even when I was with you, I wanted to go out there an' be reekin' some havoc.I—"

"That's just it!" she screamed back."You _wanted _to.You _wanted _to, but you never did.Don't you see?You could have…even with the chip…but you didn't.I felt _nothing_ like that._Nothing._Ever.Not for one second.I had you tied up and my thoughts were _fuck _or_ kill._I…I tried to…Angel.I tried to make him lose his soul.I did _awful _things…just in a couple of days.My own sister…and it's not like you had no want of emotion!There was Dru!Perverse, yeah, but you loved her.You loved her enough to…to not…"

"Buffy, please—"

"I felt _nothing _but darkness.It consumed me."Her words were becoming distorted again, and she leaned her head wearily on his shoulder."I can't take that, Will.Not again.Oh God, how I envy you.You and Angel.You…you're so collected and…you know…but I…"

"Listen to me, you halfwit," he said, fighting the instinctual urge to pull away to see her eyes.It was comfortable like this.They both needed that sense of closeness. "Peaches was a prat who got 'imself sired because of his bloody drunkenness.I was a prat who got myself sired because some bitch din't like my poetry.You got sired to save your sister.You sacrificed yourself to save the world…again.There 's nothin' in there to…you weren't 'er, luv.That thing…I knew.I knew the minute you walked in.The minute I saw you when you firs' came in an' I 'ad to…I knew.It wasn' you.Not one part of it.It wasn' you."At that, he offered a sheepish smile."I mean, come'n, luv, we told you enough times.All of us did."

Buffy looked down, shaking her head in characteristic refutation."I don't think I can do this," she whispered."An eternity of pain?An eternity of…of everything.I don't know how you've lasted this long…with or without a soul.I don't get it, Spike.And I never will."Tears welled in her eyes again."And…it could happen again.All of it.Any of it.One goddamned moment of true happiness and I…" She looked up."I'm assuming you guys found another Orb of Thesulah.Thank God.Where'd you get it?"

"Watcher Boy brought it with 'im," he replied."'m guessin' they got a call from 'im once they got back to the house."

"Wes came?"

"'E sent Faith 'ere first."

The mention of the name made her twitch.He decided not to linger."Tell me what to do, then," he whispered."Honestly, luv, I'm at a bloody loss."

"How…how long can we stay here?"

"As long as you need."

She nodded."There are some things…we need to discuss."

"I'd say so."

Buffy drew in a breath and closed her eyes tightly."And this is the way it'll be…us dancing at arm's length.Me, trying but never getting over what's happened.Watching my friends and family grow old and die.And you…here for me but never _here _for me.You're right, Will.You were right about every single reservation you ever had.About staying…especially now."She shook her head."I can't imagine what…watching them die.My friends.The people closer to me than anything on the face of this planet.And you've been careful.I've been so insensitive and you've been careful.You've tried to do the right thing…stay away.And I knew it!I knew every minute that I was being a bitch and, fuck it, I didn't care.You haven't said it once since you've been back, but I know.I guess I know.And now…now I have to do this.I'm here…and I'll be alone, and my GOD what have I turned myself into?I won't become a monster again.I won't let it happen!That means you have to leave.That means—"

"No."William surprised her with his sharp straightforwardness, earning a blink and a double take, as though both leaping for joy and despair at the same time.

"What?" 

It was nothing he had conjured spontaneously, though at the moment, there had never been a more preposterous proposal.Four years ago he would have said differently.Four years ago, anything seemed possible.But now, sitting with her in this dreary environment with reality hovering of their heads, the notion was outlandish.Far out there. Practically beyond reach.

But nevertheless, plausible.

The look on her face was enough to convince him of anything.

"Luv…I can…you don' deserve that."A long breath fought out of his body."I told Ripper a few…well, it seems like a long time ago, but I guess it wasn'.Prolly days.Huh.Jus' days.I told 'im one of the reasons I was leavin' was because it was in your best interest.'E made some bloody good points."There was no way to discuss the matter without being incredibly blunt and seemingly insensitive, but it was a discussion that needed to be had.Now more than ever."Luv, do you 'ave any idea jus' how long forever is?"

She blinked."What?"

"Be honest.How long is forever where you're standin'?"

All possible reaction drained from her face.It was a difficult calculation to conjure on a second's demand.When it was obvious she had not an answer to supply, he nodded in understanding and waved his disclosure.

"Tha's what I thought.I've been 'ere…well, not _forever_ but it bloody well feels like it.I loved Dru for a good part of that.She's been gone a while now, but I always feel she's 'round, still."Understanding washed into her eyes; not the sort of resentment one might expect when an old lover finds their way into the conversation."An', 'ad things not changed, 'ad I never come to this town an' met the lot of you, I'd still be with 'er.She was out of 'er ruddy mind, but I loved 'er.Enough to be with 'er forever."William looked at her seriously."Luv, the point is, _I_ had no clue how long forever was.Still don'.It din't matter to me.I 'ad everythin' a bloke could ever want.If…if I can…would you be able…I won' pretend we come from the same generation.Despite my…well, everythin', things like divorce an splits were pretty much unheard of back in the day.Do you think you could stand bein' 'round me forever?"

The look he received was one of grim astonishment."Of…Spi…there's no reason to talk about this.I—"

"'F the answer is yes, then I think I can work somethin' out."The wheels in his head began churning."Luv, I lost you.I've lost you before, but I really lost you this time.It was the worst feelin' I've ever 'ad.Ever.An' now…things won' be easy.They'll never be easy.I can't promise you much, but…'f we do this…'f you can, then I gotta know.I don' think I could stand to lose you again.What 'f there came the day when you decided jus' to up an' move on?"

At that, she grew hostile and defensive."Move on?To _who?_Or _what?_I have no one in this world left!And…why are we even having this conversation?Happiness, remember?Nix the happiness for me.It's not worth that.I…I don't want my love to kill you.You or anyone.And that's what it would do, ultimately.That's—"

"No."He shook his head."I've got you back now, and damn it all 'f I let it all slip away from me again.Buffy…do you love me?"

"What?"

"Do you love me?"

A frown depressed her face."Will…argh…despite the fact that I just said…bah.If you don't know the answer to that by now, then…well…you're just really stupid.But that doesn't matter anymore, don't you get it?None of it matters.I—"

He went on without lending her time to voice an argument."Would you stay with me forever?No matter how long it turns out to be?"

"Will—"

"Jus' answer the question, luv."

She sighed, hand combing through her hair."Well…yes.Yes.I don't think…I can't see anyone… Will, what's the point?"

"Stay with me…" A look of contentment the world itself had never before acknowledged lit his face like a bonfire of safe-haven."You would?Forever?"  
  


"YES!Forever.Until the world ends.Whatever it is that you need to hear.I—"

"It'll get rough, pet."

Aggravation flooded her features."Everything does.Don't talk like—"

"You'll wanna stake me 'alf the time."

"Like now?"

He didn't pause to arch a cynical look in her direction.Thoughts were racing through his head far too quickly for any meager interruption to stop the flow."I'll go to the end of the world for you.I did already, an' I'm willin' to do it again."

"What are you talking about?"

"Buffy…" He took her hands tenderly in his, caressing the backs with his thumbs."Africa.We'll go to Africa an' get you a permanent soul.Like mine.One that one sodding moment of true happiness can never take away.Whaddya say, luv?Forever?'S a long ruddy time an' it'll be hard as hell, but I think we can make it.I—" 

The sheer assurance of the plot was enough to fill anyone's heart with joy.It was with the greatest relief that he watched comprehension settle in her eyes."A permanent…"

"Yeah, luv.I won' let you fall again.Made the bloody promise to Red, an' I've made it to you.Don' aim to go back on it.I—"

"Wait, wait, wait!"Fire blazed behind her eyes alongside a sense of old-school humor.All want of denial and objection abandoned her without suggestion."This is only if I said yes?"

At that, he managed to look sheepish."Well, no.I jus' wanted to know."

A grin, faint but tangible, spread across her lips.She walloped his arm with more force than she intended."Jerk."

"'Ey, a bloke has a right to know.'F we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it all the way.I'm takin' you to Africa…an' we'll make a deal with a demon."He smiled and toyed with a lock of fallen hair."We'll do it, luv.An' I'll spend the rest of eternity tryin' to make you happy.As happy as possible.Happier than—"

"Will it be hard?"

"What?Makin' you happy?"

She rolled her eyes."No, nimrod, passing the…whatever it takes to get permanent restoration."

A note of resignation washed through him."As hell.But 'f I could do it—"

That was all the encouragement she required.The grin on her face elevated to the esteem of a bona-fide smile."Point taken. All right.Africa.We'll go to Africa."

"That we will."

"When?"

"Whenever you want, pet."

She sighed."I…I'll need to see them before we leave."

"'Course."

"How long will it take…this…thing…to get over?I know…but I don't…I just…"

William pursed his lips."I won' lie to you, pet…it'll take a long time.You'll likely carry it around forever.But we'll work through it.I'm 'ere…every step of the way."

Buffy nodded and took his hand, and while she trembled, her grip was backed with resolve."Every step," she repeated.

There was nothing more to say.And while neglected concerns occupied the air around them, there was plenty of time to tend to every inquiry.Every wonder.Every miniscule anxiety of substantial consequence.

As of that minute, they had forever.

Author's Note:I know it sounds very fairy tale-y, but trust me when I say we're not out of the woods yet.To a lighter clearing, perhaps, but there are still miles to go (at least a few, give or take) before they sleep.And, as always, the trail will not be without its sharp corners and sudden drop-offs.I simply decided to Disney it up for one chapter.Figured they deserved it.Heh.


	39. Winding Road

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

The approach to 1630 Revello Drive was slow-paced and bittersweet.  Every step crackled with electric tension, and as she fought for comfort, William grasped her hand and offered a reassuring squeeze.

The confession to cross her lips was by no means the first admittance.  A same old song that danced time and time again, never altering in tune despite how furiously the symphony prepared.  A grave but valid understanding; one that would potentially take her years to overcome.  "I don't think I can do this."

"Don' worry 'bout it, pet."

"What if…" She looked at him in silent plea for comfort, however empty.  "I know they love me, Will.  I told you, and I do know it.  But…" Her teeth found her lower lip and gnawed wearily.

"What if they don', you mean?  Luv, tha's a big 'what if.'"

She nodded, tears clouding her eyes.  The past evening had given her hope and time.  Together, they had cried enough to last an eternity.  It seemed futile to revert to square one now.

"Not even a possibility," William said confidently.  "'Sides, 's not like you're the firs' to fall into darkness.  Imagine how Red felt, comin' back 'ere all alone.  She has stones, an' so do you."  Delicately, he planted a feather-light kiss on her hand.  "You 'ave me, too.  Whatever consolation that brings.  You'll get through this, pet.  We both will."

Buffy smiled faintly.  "It's guided hope, but I guess it's all we got."

He nodded, caressing her face with curled fingers.  "More than that.  'S all we need."

The door opened after what felt like an eternity, swinging with stillness that suggested empty temperament.  Xander stood on the opposite side; his eyes telling tales of the hours lost to worry.  Both vampires detected the near-audible rush in pulse and virtually saw a frog leap in his throat.  

There was nothing on his face for a long minute.  Nothing but their mingled breaths hanging suspended in the air before the full gravity of Harris's relief swept into his eyes.  "Oh God!" he gasped at last, stepping forward and pulling her into his arms.  The boundary protecting the house quivered as she neared the territorial mark.  William pursed his lips as a flash of undying sadness drew across her face, but she courageously pushed her reservation aside.

"I'm so glad to see you," he said perceptively; hold constricting in a firm refusal to let go.  "We didn't…we couldn't know what happened until Angel came back." His gaze traveled to the platinum vampire.  "He said you got her out.  We've just been…waiting here since."

"It's good to see you, too, Xan," Buffy replied, pulling back to wipe her eyes.  "I'm so sorry.  I—"

"Don't even," he said immediately.  "Angel…he spent a good part of…well, the entire time talking to us.  Telling us what to expect.  More importantly, what _not _to expect."  He released a long-winded sigh.  "Buff, I know you.  I've known you for ten years.  And I know what happened wasn't your fault."

William's eyes narrowed in spite of himself.  "Since when did you become a picketer for us no-pulsers?"

"Since my best friend sacrificed herself to—"

"Don't," the Slayer said, holding up a hand.  "Please don't."

"No problem," Xander replied immediately.

"Where's Dawn?"

He motioned inward and her sister appeared on the stairs, masterfully timing her apt cue.  The air between them flickered with immediate response; Buffy read the pain in her eyes and felt something climactic within her crash.  Without realizing it, her gaze had blurred with tears.  "Oh God," she whispered.  "Dawnie…" The reaction was instantaneous—she tried to go forward and met the barrier in result.  That only prompted further strings of heartache.  

The look she received was unreadable, almost cold.  William felt compelled to say something but dared not for the world.  It was not his place to decide.  The Nibblet had made her feelings concerning her sister's return abundantly clear, but despite the façade of appearance, he knew she was jumping for joy inside.  With deliberate slowness, Dawn took a few steps down the stairs, gaze never wavering.  When she was close enough to touch, to reach just inside the entry, she stopped and peered.

Then respite like no other filled her eyes with warmth, and an incomparable smile broke across her face as two tears skated down her cheeks.  "Come in," she whispered, and no sooner had she leapt beyond the periphery and thrown her arms around her sister's quaking frame.  "Buffy.  Oh God."  They hugged forever; inseparable by any force, clung to one another by blood and love in a way no one else could hope to ever touch.       

"Dawn," she choked, clutching her sister with more strength than any person should be made to tolerate.  There was no want of objection; the encouragement fueled by ardor only persuaded her to make the hold all the more restrictive.  "I'm so sorry.  Please…I'm so sorry…"

"I know."  Reluctantly, the girl pulled away, a sad smile fashioned on her face.  "Believe me, you don't go through this three times without learning something in the…well…at all.  With you and Angel…and him…" She nodded discreetly to William.  "Don't feel sad.  Please don't feel sad.  I—" 

At that, the peroxide vampire stepped forward, taking Buffy's hand in his.  It was nothing of a possessive display; rather precisely what she needed now more than ever.  "Don' worry 'bout that, Bit," he said.  "We'll take care of everythin'."

The majority of the first few hours consisted of the trades, the shared tears, countless apologies and a thousand pardons.  Angel held her in a tight embrace for what seemed like hours—a raw exhibit of his tightly clad emotions.  Aside from Dawn, from whom she needed the most forgiveness, Buffy begged her first love's pardon for her ill-conceived actions.  For the blatant strain on his durability and other things she couldn't possibly be held responsible for.  

A time was reserved privately between Watcher and Slayer.  

There was Wesley as well.  Wesley to thank with all her heart.  She crushed him with superior strength.  "I don't think _thank you's_ a big enough…well, thank you," she whispered.  "I'm just glad you were here.  And I…" Hesitantly, she glanced to the elder vampire.  "Ummm…Faith.  I…"

Xander stepped forward and braced her shoulder supportively.  "That wasn't your…well, okay…I'm going to sound like the king of all hypocrites, seeing as I've been the residing President of 'Stake 'Em Vamps' ever since you started on with Angel.  And even _more _so with…" He looked to William, cleared his throat, and directed his attention away again.  "But…you're…you're Buffy.  Buff.  The Buffster. Lady of Buffdom, Duchess of Buffonia." His voice was becoming hoarse.  "And it wasn't your fault."

"You can't carry the burden," Angel agreed, solitary in his corner.  "I know that's easier said than done.  Believe me, I know.  You'll always have the memory.  Feel the sensation.  Endure the pain.  That never goes away."

"Sure, Peaches," William snickered, crossing his arms and tossing a wry glance to the black night.  "Bloody brilliant angle.  When you get to the point of 'can't hardly get up without breakin' down,' lemme jump in.  Gotta few pointers on 'ow to—"

The reaction was instantaneous.  Angel and Xander shot him identical looks of raw annoyance and muttered, "Shut up, Spike," in perfect unanimity.

Buffy grinned.  "Thanks," she said softly.  "Believe it or not, in a really weird way, that does help."

The elder vampire flashed his childe a cocky, however brief glance.

Willow stepped forward.  "So…what now?  The Master's dead, you're all normal-like…" She looked hopefully to William.  "Is…have you…decided…?"

"It isn't over yet, Red," he replied dismally.  "But we're gettin' there.  The Slayer an' me 'ave decided to get ourselves 'round to Africa.  The bloke who gave me this permanent soul thing 's over there somewhere.  'S been a few years, but I can find my way again."

Giles looked up with sharp interest.  "What are you saying?"

"Come on, Ripper.  Even you aren't that daft."  The platinum vampire grinned.  "We're gonna go get 'er one, too.  No more of that sodding 'one more of true happiness' crap.  Sorry, Peaches."  He tossed the grand sire a brief, obviously disinterested glance.  "What works for you an' all.  I s'pose you could tag along an' see if the Great An' Powerful Oz feels givin' enough to jus' hand 'em out.  I—"

"Stop talking," Angel said desperately.  "Just…stop.  Are you sure this…demon that restored your soul would be just…willing to perfect her condition?  Wouldn't there be consequences?  Wouldn't—"      

"Yeh.  An' for those who 'ave been listenin', this chap'll put 'er through some right powerful trials."  He smiled at her.  "But she can do it.  I know 'er enough to know that."  

For a long minute, Angel appeared thoroughly tempted.  Buffy knew for certain; she had seen that look flash across his face only days before.  However, in the end, he shook his head and heaved a sigh.  "The more people to go, the more time and hassle it'll cost.  If all goes well, I might find myself over there someday.  You never can know.  Besides…Cordy called last night.  She—"

"Cordelia?" Xander asked, as if the planet was overpopulated with 'Cordy's', and they, by chance, were affiliated with every single one.  "Wow.  I haven't seen her in forever."

"They're somewhat desperate to see you home," Wesley agreed.  "Things have been rather hectic.  The demon populace apparently got wind of the entire 'new Master rises' and has since been wreaking havoc in various parts of the city.  I don't suppose news has spread that the danger is over.  It's been hell trying to keep everything quiet."

"I can imagine," the elder vampire said softly.  "Wolfram and Hart must have wasted thousands in funding supporting the…" He paused when he realized everyone was staring at him.  "I suppose now is not the time to talk shop."

The conversation proceeded without further encouragement.  Giles crossed his arms and paced forward slowly.  "And after this is over," he said.  "After you obtain a permanent restoration rite for Buffy…what are your plans from there, Will?  Have you made any move to contact the library administration?" A glint of poignant hope tickled his tone—the type that said _I'll miss you _and _move on _in the same beat.  Despite everything they had been through, everything that had happened over the past few years, the past few _days, _it was still somewhat bizarre to receive the old man's blessing.

But only somewhat.

"I'm thinkin' we'll stop in London before goin' as far as Africa," the platinum vampire replied.  "I 'ave a few things to settle there, an' I'd like to go over what she'll be expectin' come the trials."

"But _after _that.  When—"

"That depends on the Slayer," William replied simply.  "I made 'er a promise last night an' I don' aim to go back on it.  'S whatever she decides."  

At that, all eyes fell on Buffy.  She huffed a long breath and shrugged.  "We still have some things to figure out," she said.  "But he's…we've pretty much decided that whatever it is that we have to face, it'd be easier to do it together.  Especially after…what happened."

Dawn smiled softly, though everyone could tell she was simply bursting with positive energy.  It was such a thoroughly welcome transition.  Warmth filled the atmosphere despite alternative suggestion, despite what they had faced these past few days.  Despite everything.  "So, you two are together?  I mean, really, really together?  As in a couple?  As in 'until apocalypse do you part'?"

William smiled.  "I'm guessin' you don' completely hate the idea, do you, Nibblet?"

The Witch practically bounded forward before Dawn could reply, leaping into the peroxide vampire's arms and pulling him into a large, heartfelt bear-hug.  "I knew it," she whispered.  "I knew you couldn't stay away.  I—"

"Will," Buffy intervened, an edge, however minimal, to her voice.  "We haven't…ummm…decided anything yet.  There are other things to decide.  Like…where we're going to live.  What we're going to do.  I hesitate to think how many slayers have been called into action with…" She looked to Angel with a deeper root of understanding.  "I'm…not sure of anything right now."

The look of subliminal bliss washed coldly off her sister's face.  "What do you mean…where you're going to live?  Has _here _been completely ruled out?  You're not going to leave us, are you?" 

"Dawnie, I didn't say that—"

"It sure sounded like it.  You're going to _leave _us?"

William paced forward and took hold of her arm.  "Nibblet, we 'aven't the slightest idea what we're doin' jus' yet.  But all things gotta be taken into account.  Your sis couldn't well stay 'ere forever an' watch the lot of you grow old an' leave 'er…no more than I could."

"And the Mayor," Angel added, capturing everyone's attention.  "Mayor Wilkins.  I know that was a long time ago, but he had some good points.  Points _so _true that it inspired me to leave.  It's hard watching those you love grow old.  There would come the day when you would resent Buffy so much for her youth that…" He glanced to Dawn empathetically.  "You should—"

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do!" the girl cried.  "Don't expect me to understand or…be happy…or…" Menacingly, she turned to William.  "What was the point of bringing her back if you're just going to take her away from me again?  You—" 

"Dawn!" Buffy seized her flailing arms.  "Calm down.  We haven't decided anything yet.  We can't—"

"No!" She yanked herself out of reach.  "I don't want to hear how it's in yours and my best interest, or how…I just don't want to hear it!"

William thundered forward.  "Now, look 'ere, Nibblet.  Mind your sis.  We're—"

The previous manifest support harbored so delicately in her adolescent subconscious had all but dissolved.  "Oh, now _you're _giving me orders?" Tears streaked roadways down her cheeks.  "You, the vamp who doesn't—"

"Don't even think of finishing that sentence, young lady!" Buffy snapped.  A look of unguided pain flashed across the platinum vampire's face, and with subtle withdraw he retreated to the corner beside Giles.

"You're always thinking of yourself!" the girl cried.  "How dare you even consider leaving me…again!  Won't you—"

"That's enough," Harris said sharply.  "Back off, Short Stuff.  She hasn't said she's leaving you or anything.  Honestly, Dawn, grow up…" At that, he paused.  "Says me.  Anyway, you're a high school graduate and probably the luckiest kid on the face of the planet.  You have a sister who has and would sacrifice everything to make sure you get every opportunity in life.  So you _could_ live_.  _Don't _ever _call her selfish again.  I—"

"Xander," Buffy intervened softly.  "Don't yell at her.  That's okay.  Thanks anyway."

The fire in Dawn's eyes had withered, but her face remained hardened and unresolved.  "You can't do this to me," she said, voice saturated in obduracy.  "I told you not to take the jump for me, and you did.  I told you not to let the Master sire you, and you did.  I told you—" She motioned to Willow, "not to do the curse again.  To just let Faith take care of it so she wouldn't feel horrible about what happened, but you did.  And now…now you give her back to me…_again_…and she's what?  Going away?  Leaving me for the thousandth time?  What's the point anymore?  What—"

"I've had enough," Giles said with a dramatic though predictable fierce removal of his glasses.  "Dawn, you cannot possibly know how hard this has been for her.  No one here except Angel and William have any feasible idea what she is going through.  I know you've had it rough.  I know you've suffered, but you cannot hope to ask of her what you're…asking of her.  You yourself said you didn't want her in pain to—"

"You guys are making a whole lot of assumptions on what I intend to do with my never-ending life," the Slayer snickered.  "For the last time, I haven't decided anything yet!  We have to get around the Africa thing first.  I don't want to leave you guys…at all.  But…you can't…" She shook her head.  "You can't expect me to…like Angel said.  And Giles.  You have _no _idea how hard this is.  There's no way you could."

"And you have the right to presume what _I'm _going through is a piece of cake?"

At that, the last strain of patience dissolved.  "Please.  Continue talking about things you have no feasible conception of.  God knows I love you, Dawnie, but you're making this harder on _me.  _Do you think I want to leave and never come back?  You're my world.  What more do I have to do to prove that to you?"

There was nothing to rebuttal on that note.  The look on the girl's face fell with deeper recognition, and a sigh burdened her small frame.  She shook her head as her eyes welled again with tears.  "Nothing.  Buffy, I'm sorry.  This is just…it's too much, you know?  All of this.  It's just too much."

The two were drawn together like magnets, seeking comfort in the other's embrace while crying a wealth of grief that could never be eased.  "I'm sorry," Dawn muttered again.  "I just don't want you to go away.  Not after everything."

"I don't want to go, either, sweetie."  Buffy pulled away and met William's gaze.  The look he depicted was mournful and engaging.  A conversation could pass between their eyes and no one would notice.  If there was one consistency to bank on, it was his devotedness to maintaining any vow that crossed his lips.  He had promised to make her happy.  After everything was over, he promised to make her happy.

And yet she couldn't look down that road.  She wouldn't allow herself to become that selfish.  There was a life in London that he adored.  A life that he wouldn't leave without serious reservations, even if he never outwardly exhibited regret.  Through everything that had occurred, he had remained singularly altruistic.  She owed it to him to repay some of the same.

It all depended on where they decided to go from there.  Where there was to go when the path forked in two directions.

At that minute, she hadn't the faintest inkling of what lay around the bend.

*~*~*

What felt like weeks of vampirehood and she wasn't accustomed yet to smelling the sun before it crossed the horizon.  Angel had told her as much years ago, and even then, the concept had been difficult to grasp.  How could any one creature _smell _the approach of daylight?  It seemed like an additive to melodramatics.

She had been naïve.  There was no denying that.

Buffy leaned over the back porch railing, sipping every now and then at a mug of cooling blood.  The night provided little to see beyond the sketches of paling stars and promise of imminent sunrise.  William stood inside; she could feel his eyes burning into her back, but she understood that he would not join her unless she extended the invitation.

The feeling of extensive deadness spanned miles within her.  What she was supposed to think, she did not know.  How she was supposed to react, she had no reasonable grasp.  The world seemed tiny yet enormous at the same time.  There was so much to explore.

She had no idea where to begin.

Buffy assumed she and William would leave the country as early as the next day—the end of the week at the very latest.  She wanted it over.  All of it.  

No one should suffer this much pain.

What they—Angel and the others—had told her remained true, of course.  Somewhere deep within her cavity, she understood that what had happened was not at her blame.  That didn't stop the images from coming.  Every time she closed her eyes, Faith's neck twisted a little tighter, crunched a little louder.  She died a little more.  

The darkness she had touched terrified her beyond reproach in a way that could not be conveyed to anyone—even those who had the slightest chance of comprehending her pain.  It was more than the fire to kill her enemy.  More than everything.  She had lashed out with the same violence toward the Master before mistakenly feeding him to the Gate of Abraxas.  That outrage.  That fiery, passionate fury.  She had never felt anything so black before in her life.  

The thought was beyond terrifying.  She feared for her sister.  For Xander, Willow, and Giles.  For Angel and William.  But mostly for herself.  A sort of animalesque barbarity had bred her into something that required nothing but adequate prompt to be pushed into gear.  It would be easy to blame that on the demon, but she knew.  She knew it was birthed somewhere within her.  The soul within the monster.

It was prophetic, sadly.  Spike had told her time and time again that she belonged in the shadows, and she was only now beginning to agree with him.

Tears rolled down her cheeks without feeling.  Numbness stretched every inch of her cold skin.  She couldn't cry forever, but she might as well die trying.

The back door slammed closed.  She flinched but didn't bother to turn.  

"You know," Giles said softly.  She could smell the coffee he held with acute awareness. The thought almost made her chuckle.  He had not slept a wink, but that was not without assistance.  "It is getting rather late."

"Don't you mean early?"

"Hmmm.  Touché."  He took a long sip and sighed.  "If you're planning on greeting the sunlight when it comes up, I'd advise against it.  Will tried the same thing a few years ago.  He thinks that I don't know about it, but I do."  A rumble of humorless mirth shook the Watcher's body.  "I was ready to drag him off that rooftop kicking and screaming if I had to."

"I know," she replied.  "He told me."

"Buffy, do not be upset with him for bringing you back.  He thought he was doing the right thing."  He huffed.  "That's the thing about him; he has the most insufferable loyalty of anyone I've ever met—outside Xander, of course."

"I'm not upset with him."  She sighed.  "Well, I was of course.  I mean—sure—who wouldn't be?  But he did do the right thing.  I need to do this…face up to what I've done.  Accept the consequences."        

"You cannot be held accountable for anything," Giles replied.  "I know you'll tire of hearing that, but it is the truth.  You did what you though was right.  What your blood commanded of you."

Buffy snickered.  "Funny.  When Angel went wacky everyone still blamed _him_ for what happened to Ms. Calendar.  Don't play favorites on me."

There was a brief pause.  "I realize that," he replied a second later.  "It was terribly unfair.  We didn't know…or understand.  I suppose you really don't comprehend the layers of souled vampires until you work with one for several years.  It was through that that I was able to see the distinction between Will and his demon counterpart.  Granted, they are very much the same, but there are notable differences.  He is not like you.  For whatever reason, he can be both.  You are not."

Another audible scoff tittered through her body.  "Don't try to make me feel better.  You didn't see me before I jumped through the Gate.  I went completely postal on the Master."

"That sounds natural."

"No, I mean seriously, I was two seconds from ripping his head off with my teeth."  Buffy shook her head heavily.  "I've never felt anything that black.  It was as if the transition from Slayer to 'no souly, look at me!' was already in motion.  I turned into something…terrible."

"You were provoked, though, correct?  Willow was able to relate some of what Geryon said before he died."

At that, her eyes darkened.  "I'll say I was provoked.  Can't even remember what the hell he said, but it was enough to get me going.  But that's not the point, Giles.  I was…I was a monster.  I've never felt like that before."

He sighed and moved directly beside her.  The scent of coffee became thick and almost intolerable.  She wondered how it would taste intermingled with blood.  "Well, Buffy," he said, "you _are _a vampire now.  Violent outbursts are embedded in your nature.  It is to be expected.  You have strength beyond strength.  I'd wager you've only sampled what power now lies at your fingertips."

"Great.  More chaos."

"I don't believe so."

She was crying before she realized it.  That was another annoying side effect to rekindled humanity; tears came naturally.  Without warning or forethought she would find herself sobbing into a deluge.  It was a miracle she had not drowned in her own tears.  "I…the things I did—"

"You can't blame yourself."

"Stop saying that!" At once, she jumped away, wiping the moistness at her face with frustration.  "God, why does everyone insist on telling me the obvious?  I realize that it wasn't me.  That Faith and everyone else I killed wasn't…it wasn't my fault.  I get that, okay?  But I feel it, Giles.  Every time I close my eyes, every time I pause to take a breath—God, isn't that an annoying habit to kick?—every time I…it wasn't me.  Sure.  But I was there.  I was there and I didn't stop it."  Buffy choked a sob and shook her head with sudden fury.  "And now…everything's so…Dawn hates me.  Will's going to give up everything he loves for me.  That's not fair…after all I've put him through.  I finally got what I want and I'm _miserable!  _I can't do shit about it.  I'm stuck here in a—" 

"Dawn does not hate you," the Watcher assured her, tone neutral and soft.  "She loves you very much.  She has been put through far more than anyone can really take into account.  I think we underestimate that at times."

She sniffed.  "It's not like _my _life has been a bed of roses, either."

"Yes, but you didn't have a choice.  You were born to stop evil.  She was created to be hidden from evil."  Giles sighed.  "I think we expect too much of her at times.  Despite…memories and all sense of understanding, she is only six years old when it boils down to the final all."  He paused.  "And I guarantee you, if his leaving the library meant half as much to Will as you do, he wouldn't budge for the world."

The sky was beginning to brighten with streaks of daylight.  "He hasn't said as much to me," she whispered.  "I mean, it's implied.  And I know he loves me…but he still…he hasn't said it."

The Watcher chuckled unsmilingly.  "Oh?  Is that all?  Honestly, Buffy, if you've ever had any doubt in the sincerity of his feelings—"

"I haven't."  A brief pause.  "I just…I don't want him to feel obligated to be with me.  He says he's going to spend the rest of his unlife trying to make me happy.  It all sounds very wine and roses, but I…if there's someplace he'd rather be…something he'd—"

"If there was someplace William would rather be, trust me, he would be there.  You're his whole world."  Giles smiled softly.  "If he neglects to bluntly relate his affection, it might be for subconscious fear of lingering rejection.  He memorized the taste of your dismissal well enough to copy the recipe.  I'm not saying he does it intentionally.  You must be patient with him."

A brief want of fierce refutation flared within her, but there was nothing to say to justify her former actions.  Cold understanding settled in.  They took simultaneous drinks of their respective beverages and stilled once more.  

"If nothing else," the Watcher continued, dumping the rest of his coffee over the side of the railing, "look no further than the extents to which he is willing to go for you.  Words are cheap, Buffy.  Actions display one's love with much more reality than anyone else could possibly offer."

"I feel so…shitty."  She sighed and finished off the blood with a large mouthful.  "Out of everything that's happened, and I worry about the most selfish—"

"It's not selfish.  It's human.  A human reaction in the need of love."  Giles stepped backward.  "If you didn't worry about it, you would be truly dead."

She snickered cynically.  "With my track record, I'll never be _truly_ dead."

They shared a mutually unfunny chuckle.

"The sun is coming up," he observed.  "And he's waiting for you."

"I know," Buffy replied.  "He's been watching me ever since I came out here."

"Yes, and he is willing to wait forever."  Finally, she turned to meet the Watcher's eyes.  Wisdom beyond comprehension soared with stunning magnitude.  "It's displays like that that scream _I love you.  _You oughtn't need any further reassurance."  He paused, looked down, then up again, gaze fixed on the graying sky.  "You better get indoors.  You both deserve your rest."

Then he was gone, retreated inward to get some sleep before the sun decided to show its face.  Buffy sighed and set her cup on the ground beside her.  

"It helps to hear it, though," she whispered.  "However _unneeded _it might be."

She went in shortly thereafter, meeting William by his post.  They shared few words—conversation was suddenly unnecessary.  He kissed her chastely and they retired upstairs.  Another sleepless interval of guilt-stricken reflection.  Another day to curl in his arms and forget the world lies waiting outside her bedroom door.

Another day passed.  Another day to face.

Another day in which she could start again.


	40. Rhythm

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

_Home is where the heart is._

Buffy bit her lip and attempted to kick the thought out of her head with little success.  There was nothing to suggest a forlorn displacement on William's face as they stepped off the plane.  Nothing but bland acceptance, perhaps a flicker of his eyebrows in recognition of something he had missed over the past month or so. 

The first light of dawn was creeping past the horizon.  She had smelled its intensity while in the air, but shivers ran up her spine now with grim forewarning.  A long time ago, Angel had told her that flying was not in the best interest of vampires, and she had accepted it.  William, however, had more experience when it came to the art of skipping the country in a blink.  They had spent the better of the previous night working out a timetable that would allot them to miss the sun completely on their venture.

"Had to do the same thing with Ripper," he had explained, cigarette puckered between his lips.  "Right before we came over 'gain.  Gave 'im a right lesson on how to deal with delays, cancellations, an' the like.  It was fun, knowin' stuff 'e din't."

She had smiled and patted his hand in an almost condescending matter.  "I'll bet."

They had beaten daylight by a hair.  It was beginning to crinkle into perspective, and she suddenly felt stripped and barren.  Cold and alone.  Without thinking, she grasped William's arm and held tight for reassurance.  

"'S all right," he said.  "Trust me, luv.  That coat you're wearin' 'll swallow you whole.  'S gotten me through many a sticky situation."

At that, Buffy grinned.  She couldn't help it.  "I remember."

He arched a brow and granted her his eyes.  "You do?"

"Well, I'm guessing you went through a thousand blankets at the very least."  She tugged at the leather lapels of her duster.  "This has its marks, but is otherwise unscathed."

"Made to last forever, baby," he agreed with a grin.  

"What about you?"

"Me?  Pet, I know every street in this ruddy town back an' front.  I know exactly where the sun hits at what time.  I can dodge the bullet pretty well, 'f I don' say so myself."

Her eyes narrowed.  "You can't be serious.  I'm not going to leave until I know that—"

William smiled gently and removed the single carry-on they had taken aboard the plane.  "Peaches an' I used these to see the Nibblet graduate.  'S a pain in the arse, but I figure, better safe then a pile of dust."

Inside the bag were an overly large poncho, an umbrella, and a pair of sunglasses in manner of Men In Black.  She couldn't help it; Buffy dissolved into giggles.

"Got you an' umbrella an' specks, too," he announced, grinning at her reaction but making no note of it.  "Nicked 'em from Peaches."  When she narrowed her eyes, he shrugged sheepishly and conceded.  "Fine, I asked 'im nicely an' he handed 'em over.  'S not like 'e had any great use for 'em, anyway."

"I always knew you two could become very best friends if you put your mind to it," she teased.

"'Ey there.  Tha's not—"

"Shhh." She leaned supportively on him; drawing in the scent of long-extinguished cigarettes and the remnants of the brandy they had shared the night before.  "Your secret's safe with me."

The platinum vampire smirked at her, steering her down one of the darker hallways.  There was no need to visit baggage claim — neither had brought anything.  A stop by the library and his curator's suite would provide more than enough clothing to supply him for the next few days, and she, despite all reasoning and logicality, had exhibited no desire to pack a shred of fabric.  She had assurances that there would be plenty to wear.

"Once the lights go out, I'll give yeh a tour of the town," he said, taking her hand.  "Oughta be a kick."

"I'm just itching to see this library Giles has told me about," Buffy replied in earnest.  "Will we be meeting the administrators that hold you in such high esteem?"

"Likely not.  I'll need to phone 'em an' let 'em know of the situation."

"What situation?"

"That they'll be needin' to find a new keeper."

The slightest hint of tang tickled his tone.  A frown creased her face, and while she ran her hand supportively down the length of his arm, the will to keep closely guarded by a short-trained leash was slowly leaving.  Realization was a funny thing; it struck only after she had what she wanted.  What she has lost everything trying to gain.  

It was time to stop being selfish. 

"Will," she said softly.  "You don't have leave the library if you don't want to.  I mean, you _don't _want to.  I know that well enough.  Just…looking at you confirms that.  You shouldn't have to give all this up for me."

He paused shortly, grip on her tightening with protective animality.  "I want to, luv," he said.  There was every hope of authenticity in his voice, in the way he looked at her as though her words formed the stake that pierced his nonbeating heart.  "Thought I'd made that clear."

"No.  What you made clear was that you wanted me to be happy, despite what that costs you."  She shook her head with a heavy breath.  "What…what happened has opened my eyes up to more than one…I've been so self-involved.  And I knew it.  I knew that I knew it…I've told you time and time again, but I couldn't stop.  Even when I knew it was destroying me.  I won't let it destroy you, too."

William arched a brow and grasped her chin fiercely, jerking her eyes to meet eyes.  "Do I look destroyed?" he demanded.  "Lil scarred, sure.  You got a mean right hook, luv.  I won' kid 'round with you.  But it takes more than that to destroy me, an' it sure takes a hella lot more to destroy you.  All what 'appened did was open my eyes."

"Yeah, and what a sight that must've been," Buffy retorted bitterly, pulling out of his reach.  "I can't do this to you.  Make you give up everything you started here just because I have issues.  Because I—"

"Everythin' I started 'ere?"  The platinum vampire was only minimally aware that his voice had elevated, and didn't care for the inquisitive glances it earned from bystanders.  "Luv, you 'ave no idea what I started 'ere.  I came 'ere to get away from myself.  Myself an' every bloody thing I'd ever done wrong by you or the rest of the sodding Scoobies.  It was blind luck that I ran into Ripper that night an' said all the wrong things.  'S always been about you.  Always.  'S why I got up every…well, yeh, every mornin'.  'S why I came halfway across the world to see you, even when I knew I…" He trailed off, eyes darting in a thousand directions.  "I wanted to do what was right by you.  'F that Master 'aden't sunk his teeth in yeh, things woulda been different.  You woulda had your life ahead of you.  Now you 'ave more than that: you 'ave a thousand lives.  God-willin'…  Unless you right tell me to, I don' aim to go anywhere."

Tears of an unknown target clouded her eyes.  She had cried so much these past few days.  It was amazing there was still anything to give.  There they stood for several minutes, encompassed in each other's soothing company.  Standing in the heart of consolidation.  

It was time to go.

There wasn't need for further discussion.  William took her hand and guided her through the airport, and they were outside before she knew it.  Shivers of radiated warmth shimmied down her spine.  Even in the shadows, the sunlight could reach her.  Chill her.  Much to her surprise, her companion neglected to withdraw the supplementary deterrent wear he had been so insightful to pack.  Instead, he nodded her down a labyrinth of various alleyways, hailed a cab, and had all but managed to beat daybreak altogether until she felt a fiery sensation spring across her back.

"'Ere," he said hurriedly, producing an umbrella.  "Use your coat, luv.  We're nearly there."

"What about you?"

William flashed her a patronizingly cocky grin.  "Don' worry.  I've been 'ere a time or two."

It wasn't much for reassurance.  The sleeve of his shirt had burst into flames.  

"Bloody hell," he grumbled, extinguishing it the spark with panicked rapidity.  "Hate it when that 'appens."

"Ummm…indoors?  Anytime soon?"  She yanked the bag of goodies into grasp and threw a poncho over his head.  At his incredulous glance, she rolled her eyes.  "Humor me.  Let's go."

The library was larger than she had imagined.  In the years that Giles had been her Watcher, she and the gang had kidded him endlessly about his life in England.  It was odd to have at least a part of their well-founded theories validated by fact.  However, interior wasn't dark and musky as she would have expected.  Skylights beamed arches of sunbeams through empty aisles of endless books.  It was truly a Watcher's haven.  

"Home sweet home," he drawled appreciatively.  

Skeptically, she arched a brow and pointed to the rather problematic situation of the ceiling.

William grinned.  "Told Ripper when I firs' came 'ere that I understood why 'e wanted me in the job.  It was a nice easy way to get a quick dustin'.  'S really not that bad, pet.  You jus' gotta get that rhythm to it."

"Rhythm?"

If his smile grew any wider, it would qualify for its own zip code.  There were parts of him simply bursting with ecstasy at the promise of being back, despite how he tried to hide it.      

"Jus' watch an' learn."

Like a trained dancer, he moved gracefully (but in a very manly way, of course) across the library floor.  Every motion was made in an elegant arch away from any potential beams of light.  He completed the routine with a stylish skid across one of the mahogany tables, miraculously without knocking over any books.  

A rumble of mirth was captured before it could erupt from her throat.  "What?  No jazz hands?"    

He turned back to her with a swaggering flex of his brows.  It was such a natural characteristic.  "There, now, luv," he said.  "Easy as can be.  Jus' gotta develop your own rhythm.  Want a lil help across?  Might take some time."

Buffy laughed in spite of herself.  "Dear God," she replied, shaking her head.  "I really, _really _hope that dance number was some residual thing from Sweet that you never got over."

He scoffed jokingly, pride hurt.  "Dance number?"

"Oh, come on, Will." 

"Let's see you do any better."

"Oohhh, a challenge."  She dropped their bag full of sun-protector goodies to the floor beside her feet.  "I love a good challenge.  Prepare to be astonished.  Even inspired."

"I'm all eyes, Slayer."

Granted, he had experience on her, but she was a quick learner.  With several improvisational steps and more than one mocking routine, she managed to navigate herself to the table unscathed.  When she looked up, he was grinning madly at her, and she realized she was smiling back.  How easy it was to fall into old patterns.  How easy it was to have _fun…_

A shudder of regret claimed her before the thought could progress.  It was not right to have fun.  Not after everything that had happened.

That notion alone threw her balance askew.  Before she could make with the grand, overdone finale, she lost her footing and nearly stumbled into a stream of sunlight.  William acted quicker than she could have foreseen, catching her with admirable swiftness and pulling her safely to the other side.

"See?" he said, trying without success to mask the concern in his voice.  "Tha's what overconfidence does to you, pet."

"Yeah."  Heaving a breath, Buffy pulled out of his arms and hugged herself tightly.  "Overconfidence.  I guess I don't have the rhythm down yet."

Their eyes met with mutual understanding.  

"It'll come," William promised.  "One of these days, you'll find your own to dance to."

The gravity abandoned her eyes, and releasing a long-winded sigh, the Slayer nodded, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear.  "It takes time," she acknowledged.  "But that's what I got.  Time."  She met his gaze with the shadow of a smile tickling her mouth.  "Someday, I'll get it down even better than you."

That was all it took.  The casual atmosphere returned with much appreciation, and he grinned wickedly at her in silent challenge.  

Then she saw the man behind him.

The voice was soft-spoken and metallic, reminiscent of the Master's in an eerie fashion.  Its owner was an older, attractive man with piercing eyes.  He looked to her at first, accusing, before frowning at the platinum strands in the other vampire's hair.  "I do hope I am not interrupting anything highly illegal."

William's brows arched and he pivoted to face him.  "Who the bloody hell are you?"

"Dr. Arthur Fell," the man replied.  "Provisional curator of this establishment.  I'm afraid to inform you that the library is not open for another hour or so.  How did you manage to get in?"

The bleached blond produced a key with a decidedly baleful sneer.  "Oh, the temp guy.  Forgot about you.  Well, you can pack your bags an' move the hell out.  For now, anyway.  I'm the reg 'round 'ere, 'kay, mate?  Why don' you jus' sod off?"

"Will," Buffy said warningly.  "Maybe if you asked nicely—"

Dr. Fell's eyes narrowed with aching skepticism.  "William Ripper II, I presume?"

The vampire grumbled and shot her a look of strangled exasperation. "Tha's right," he replied temperately. "An' I'm gonna be needin' the joint 'ere for a few days.  After 's all said an' done, I'll let you 'ave 'er back."

"Is the administration alerted to your return?"

"They will be soon as I phone 'em up.  'S all right, Doc.  I can run the place." Demonstratively, he plucked a cigarette between his lips and earned a look of serious skepticism in return. "'F you want confirmation an' all that, call Ellie an' tell 'er I'm back."

"I don't suppose you have any credentials handy?"  Dr. Fell's eyes ran him up and down.  "You don't exactly strike me as the…curator type."

"Yeah?  Hmmm.  Innit that strange?  Might mention how much I don' care."  He huffed a long string of smoke onto the doctor's face.  "Be a good lil boy an' run along, now.  Shop's closed for the day."

A look of malicious irritation flashed across his face.  This was not a man who liked being told what to do.  "Do you mind horribly if I make a call first?"

William gestured broadly.  "Be my guest."

"Care to point me in the right direction?"  There was not one word in the question that did not insinuate challenge.  

That was easy for him to say.  The phone was in the office down the pathway of several sunbeams.  Arching a brow, the vampire scoffed.  "What kinda wanker do they got workin' 'ere 'f 'e doesn' even know where the bloody phone's at?"  Generally, he waved in the indicated direction.  "Want the number, too?  'S—"

"Thank you, Mr. Ripper.  I believe I can take it from here."

Dr. Fell was gone the next instant, disappeared through a maze of books and card catalogs.  When he was out of earshot, Buffy elbowed William sharply in the ribs.  "Hostile much?  What was up with that?"

He frowned as if only then catching himself, drawing a long puff of his cigarette.  "Dunno," he replied, puzzled.  "That chap jus' rubbed me the wrong way."

"And that has nothing to do with the fact that he's running your library?"

"Easy there, luv.  Don' start that again."

When Dr. Fell returned, he verified that the management not only confirmed that the normal curator was an ill-mannered Cockney with a smoking problem, but that they were positively ecstatic to have him home.  

The look on his face was not a happy one.  "I will be stepping out of your way, then," he said.  "I believe you will find the curator's apartment is as you left it.  At the administration's request, I acquired living quarters a suitable distance away from the library.  They were rather…adamant on your return."

"'Course."  William finished off his cigarette and consigned it to the floor without looking away, smothering it with the toe of his boot.

Dr. Fell's eyes narrowed even further in scrutiny.  "Such charm," he drawled.  "I can see why they would be hesitant to let you go."

"What can I say?  I'm a keeper.  Run along then."       

The library was quiet within minutes.  He performed the hopscotch routine across the foyer once more to lock the door behind the doctor, and was back in seconds, no longer trying to impress anyone.  Through it all, William avoided Buffy's accusatory gaze.  "Problem with some poofs," he said, reaching for another cigarette.  "Like that prat.  'E 'ad absolutely no rhythm whatever."

"Yes.  I'm sure the lack of rhythm was his problem."   

"Oh lay off it, pet.  I jus' wanted the place to myself.  Might as well enjoy wha's 'ere while I can, right?"

At that, she sighed and rolled her eyes.  "Spike, listen—"

"No…bah.  I'm such a ponce.  I din't mean it like that.  Not at all."  He held up a hand.  "Let's head upstairs for the grand tour, eh?  'S got nice digs."  

The upper levels of the curator's suite looked relatively unchanged in style.  Buffy nearly felt she had stepped through a time transport — everything was of old age and a rustic elegance; something she would never have expected of either William or his demon counterpart.  A large dining table greeted the entryway, set with guest books, floral arrangements, and two candelabras.  To the left stretched another room, evidently used for storage.  The right curved into an immodest though small staircase that led to the upstairs.  For an apartment, it was gracious in size but somehow remained unpretentious.  There were three housing rooms: a master chamber, a guest room, and the lavatory.  

"Looks bigger than it is," William said, gauging her wide-eyed amazement.  "There's a big room, but I don' stay in there.  Well, maybe once or twice, but it wasn' my style.  You can 'ave it 'f you want it, pet. The other is small an'…well, doesn' really match the rest of the joint."

"You stay in there?" she repeated softly, tearing her gaze away from the grandiose atmosphere, somewhat dazed.  It completely baffled her that he had lived here comfortably for three, nearly four years.  She felt she would break something with every turn.  

"Yeh.  Like I said, 's not much, but—"

"I'll stay wherever you stay," Buffy decided with finality.  "I don't sleep well in…unfamiliar places."

He smiled grimly.  "Whatever you want."  There was a brief, slightly awkward silence.  "You want to change, luv?  Sleep a lil?  'S been a long day…night."

"Until tonight, yeah.  I'd like to see the town."

"'Course."

The room he inhabited was — without a doubt — smaller and the most out of place in the entire establishment.  The walls were a creamy off-white, and the bed, though moderate, was not nearly as grand.  However, his conclusions were correct.  It was indeed homier, and though a month had passed, the air still smelled of cigarettes and liquor: the full element that constructed him into _Spike._

She rested, but he didn't.  Couldn't.  There was so much to be done.  

At one point, William retreated downstairs once more and opened the library to the public.  He buried himself in research and old text to keep occupied, but his wandering mind refused to settle.  Terrible and continuous cases of premonition tackled his sensory, and try as he might, he could not expel the sensation from conscious.  

An hour passed before the bell above the door announced a visitor.  So far from the present, he didn't register another presence until a familiar shadow overcast his studies.  

"So, William.  See you couldn't stay away after all."

He looked up and grinned.  "Oy there, Professor Hawkins.  Din't 'ear you come in."

"Up to the usual?" 

The vampire grinned and shrugged.  "Researchin' the Big Bad, what else?"

"Ellie called.  Said you were back."

"Oh right." William's eyes twinkled mischievously.  "'Ad to get rid of the doc someway.  Figure'd a call to the board would do it."

"You have no idea how much we've missed you around here."  Hawkins paused thoughtfully.  "Not that Fell wasn't an adequate replacement, of course.  I believe you were told before you got the job that his records were flawless — almost too good to be true.  He was very helpful to all local patrons, but never as popular.  We've had several inquires, by phone and email, wondering where you had gone off to."

The smile on his face turned bittersweet.  "I s'pose I should tell yeh that I'm only 'ere for a day or so.  There's somethin' I gotta do for a friend of mine.  It shouldn't take long, but I doubt…honestly, Professor, I doubt I'll be back after."

The previous note of manifest support faded in Hawkins's eyes, and his face fell to tired displacement.  "Oh.  I see.  Any specific reason?"

Buffy's timing was impeccable.  That very instant she chose to come down the main corridor, wearing his oversized bathrobe and looking very disheveled.  "Will?" she asked sleepily.  "I woke up and you weren't…" She stopped when she saw the stranger standing directly in one of the sunbeams.  "Oh.  Oh God.  I didn't know you had opened up.  I—"

"Don' worry, luv," the platinum blond excused.  "This is Professor Hawkins.  'E's with the administration.  Jus' came by to say 'ello an' what all.  Professor, this is—"     

"The reason you're leaving us, I presume?" Proficiently, he stepped forward and grasped her hand with cold warmth.  "Hello.  I don't mean to sound bitter.  I'm sure—"

"Y'don' understand."  William jumped up immediately, protective and fierce.  "This is Buffy Summers, Professor.  This is _Meus Amor.  _She—"

The grim insipidness in his eyes expired without further provocation, replaced with instantaneous understanding.  "Oh.  I see.  My mistake."  His grip on her hand tightened.  "It's a real pleasure to meet you, Ms. Summers.  Will always told us the inspiration for that poem was a real beauty, but I see his way with words — for once — simply did not do justice."  He frowned then and glanced to the peroxide vampire.  "I didn't realize it was this cold in here.  Is the—"

"She's like me," William explained softly.  "That thing that Ri…Giles an' I were workin' on…it went wonky, as things tend to do."

"He knows you're a vampire?"  Buffy questioned skeptically.

"'S actually how I got the job, luv."  He grinned.  "Bloody well almost gave Ripper a heart attack.  We 'ad to meet upstairs in the attic an'—"

"Quite an amusing tale," Hawkins agreed with a jovial laugh.  "He scared half of the committee, but after a couple weeks, it was clear we had picked the right man for the job.  He got along with everyone and was extremely well liked among the college students.  The young ladies, I seem to remember—"

At that, William adopted a sheepish visage.  "Y'don' 'ave to mention that, mate."

"Oh no," the Slayer countered.  "Please do.  Go on."

Without shame, the Professor complied.  "The girls really fancied him, if I remember properly.  Now, I won't lie to you, Ms. Summers…from what I know, he was very…umm…formal with the lot of them.  Helpful but unresponsive."  When the look on her face fell to dubious respite, he chuckled loudly and shook his head with every strain of conviction.  "I'm being very serious.  Will is one of the most invaluable curators this library has ever known."

"They let me smoke in 'ere an' everythin'," he confirmed.  

"You say you'll only be here a day or so.  Where do you plan on going?"

The two vampires exchanged a heady glance.  "Bit of everywhere, 'm guessin'," William replied dismissively.  "Got somethin' to take care of, then the world's ours for the takin'."

"Well, I won't pretend we won't miss you," Hawkins said regrettably.  "But I wish you two the best.  And you know, there's always a place here in case you decide—"

"'Preciate it, mate."

The remainder of the conversation was cordial but brief.  When they were alone again, the atmosphere settled into thick silence.  Buffy busied herself practicing a routine of sunbeam navigation, tiring eventually and stretching with the affects of cabin fever.  The platinum blond remained immersed in a number of books, not looking for anything and consequentially finding nothing of interest.  

"See, luv," he said when she completed her sixth round.  "This is why most vamps sleep through the day."

"I'm on California time here," she countered.  "Around two tonight, it'll really catch up with me."

"An' tha's when the real fun starts bein' 'ad," William observed.  "You hungry?  Got some pig's blood in the fridge upstairs, but 's prolly not much anymore."

An expression of pure distaste flashed through her eyes.  "Mmm.  Yummy.  Month old blood.  Sign me right up."

"There's a butch not too far from 'ere."  He stealthily rose to his feet.  "'F you—"

"I'm good." She didn't want to mention that the transition from human to pig blood was affecting her in the worst of senses.  The respect she had for his endurance was on a steady increase.  After feasting on people for over a century, he had been forced to adapt to controlled conditions and animal essence.  On only a few days running, it was giving her a headache.  "How much longer till sunset?"

"Not very."  

"So this is how you spent your days with Giles?"  Buffy paced across one of the tables, earning a sardonic glance.  "You mentioned he had you on his timetable, and I rather doubt he's the type to sleep all day and work all night."

William grinned wryly.  "Sometimes, pet, we worked 'round the clock.  Took turns dozin' every half hour or so, 'f that.  'F we got on a roll, we din't usually fancy stoppin' to catch any shut-eye.  Up till the last when 'e found that thing 'bout the Master…God, I don' think I slept a wink."

She nodded, pursing her lips and flopping cross-legged to the base of the table.  "You had some life here," she observed.  "I mean…demony you would hate it.  I can't quite get passed that…but if I go on Giles's word, and from what that guy…what was his name…?"

"Hawkins."

"Right.  It must've been wonderful." 

At that, he shrugged, flipping his book closed and hopping to an opposite stance, whirling on the mahogany with a slight grin.  "Not wonderful, luv," he replied softly.  "I mean…sure.  Respected an' all that.  I do like the blokes who hired me.  I liked workin' with Ripper on everythin'.  Bein' treated like a friend an' not…well, I s'pose I 'aven't had any genuine friends in a while.  Despite our time together, Dru an' I were never really _friends.  _We shagged like rabbits, of course, an' enjoyed reapin' all kinds of wackiness, but we were never _friends.  _Peaches…'e annoyed me.  At first 'e was all right…I mean in the early days.  But after 'e came back…nothin' but a bloody pain."  He fidgeted, and she knew immediately he was fighting the impulse to fish for another cigarette.  Perhaps it was the London air that had him back smoking with such regularity.  She didn't think she had seen him light up so actively since he came back into her life.  "An' then the Scoobies.  Nibblet an' I were close for a spell, but tha's 'bout it."  It was amazing to hear him speak of that period of their acquaintance without reflecting a note of bitterness.  "Then I came 'ere, an' everythin' changed."

"Do you regret it?"

"What?"

"Going to Africa.  Getting your soul."

William arched his scarred eyebrow and forfeited the battle against will, reaching for his cigarettes.  "Tha's a bloody stupid question."

"Yeah.  And so was your asking me back home if I loved you.  Answer me."

He had to give her that.  An obvious inquiry deserved an obvious answer.  Releasing a breath of concession, he smiled and shook his head.  "No, luv.  Wouldn't take it back for the world.  I mean, sure, sometimes what I've done catches up with me.  Sometimes it hurts so much I…" He trailed off briefly, lost in a sea of collection.  When he found his wording, all sense of plausible remorse had driven out of his voice.  "But look at what all's 'appened as a result.  I mean, I got a right wicked job for a couple years.  Got Ripper not hatin' my guts.  Got you sittin' 'ere, listenin' to me.  Wantin' to listen to me.  I—"

"Will you ever forgive yourself?"

William sighed.  "For which?"

"What you…what I forgave you for."

There was a briefly cold — not harsh, but reflective silence.  He puffed dependently on his fag, eyes lost in a sea of wonderment and inward rejection.  "No," he replied at last.  "Somethin' like that…forgivin' yourself 's somethin' you never really do, pet.  I know…I know tha's not what you want to hear.  But I can't, I can't imagine feelin' anythin' but the deepest—"

"I'm not concerned with that I _want _to hear, Will," Buffy rejoined resolutely.  "I already know what I want, and I know that I'll never get it.  Just be honest with me.  You've never been anything but, even when the truth is at its ugliest."

He snickered.  "You'd see right through me."

"Yeah.  I would."  The look they shared was a midpoint between doting and disdainful.  A sort of complex familiarity that could not help but draw them together.  "That's why I know I can count on you," she continued.  "You're straight with me."

"Would be afraid to be anythin' but.  You do 'ave a knack for makin' it difficult, pet."

The Slayer grinned tightly to herself and glanced down.  "You will miss it here, won't you?  Just a little?"

"A lil?  Well…yeh.  I'll reckon there'll be missin' every now an' then.  But I know I got me the better end of the trade."  The look in William's eyes was all the confirmation she would ever require; it did more than wipe away reservation — it assured her that regardless, he would be there.  He would hold true to his word and do whatever it took to make her the happiest person on the face of the planet.

And for one blessed diminutive fraction in the whole theory of time continuum, that was all that mattered.  


	41. Bliss

**Chapter Forty**

The town was positively magical at night.  Whether in respect to a first-timer's impressions or simply in falling with the synchronicity that had somehow brought them together, she was completely enveloped.  Not a question went unanswered, not a shortcoming unfinished.  For endless hours they walked the streets, arms linked, admiring the sights that he had likely beheld time and time again.  He humored her continual questioning, answered every query with thorough account that arose in conversation.  

"Ripper firs' saw me over there," William observed, pointing to the ever-familiar café.  "Bloody good coffee."

"Coffee?"

"Well…" With a grin, he shook the sack of goodies dangling off their coupled arms.  "With the right additives, o'course."

Buffy's brows perked.  She decided not to mention the meditation she had toyed with that very concept.  "Blood flavored coffee?"

"Don' knock it jus' yet.  'S damn good stuff, Slayer."

There was enough evidence to support the contrary, but still the prospect of willfully consuming the essence of any living creature was a notion categorized infinitely in the 'yuck' factor.  When she drank, there wasn't anything in the world that tasted better, but outside the knowledge that it was needed for survival, the thought was one she preferred to ignore.

If William registered her displacement, he wisely refrained from commenting.  "Come 'ere luv," he said, tugging gently on her arm.  "Sit down an' I'll fix yeh up."

He disappeared for briefly and returned with two steaming cups of newly brewed stimulant.  The scent of fresh blood also wafted suspiciously in the air.  

"Drink up," he instructed.  "You'll feel better."

Buffy's eyes narrowed skeptically.  "You know, Will…" She tapped the side of her nose informatively.

At that, he grinned sheepishly and shrugged.  "Jus' try it."

"Well, I have to now," she replied, raising the cup to her lips.  "My tummy's growling."

William took a swig of his own, a look of unadulterated bliss overcoming his features.  "Mmm…never get tired of that stuff," he observed.  "'S been sorely missed.  Go on, Slayer.  Nothin' wrong with a lil taste."

It was admittedly the best flavor she had ever had the good fortune to sample.  Naturally, she would never tell him that.

"I used to sit 'ere an' watch people," he said a few minutes later, stare lost in the swirling mass of crimson-tainted russet infusion settled before him.  "All the bloody time.  Found the best inspiration for all those ruddy poems I jotted down.  Jus' lookin' all the sodding emotions that people let rule their lives.  The very root of humanity, luv.  I'd never seen anythin' like it before.  I'd ripped well enough apart back in the day, but I never stopped just to watch."  When it appeared that was all he had to say, Buffy implored him silently to continue.  It was simply riveting listening to him speak — observing the world through newborn eyes of an aged personality with knowing perception.  "They din't know, you see.  None of 'em ever stopped an' realized that what they were fuckin' up was the one chance at perfection any of 'em would ever know.  I've lived a hundred lifetimes an' I've made some bloody stupid mistakes.  Din't learn a whole lot, o'course, but it wasn' necessary.  Not at first.  I could make the same choices over an' over again an' it din't matter, 'cause I 'ad forever to get it right, assumin' a stake never found 's way near me."  At that, he glanced up and locked gazes.  "An' tha's the important thing, luv.  Tha's what you gotta remember to get through every day.  You might have mucked things up, but you got forever to make it better."

The Slayer pursed her lips.  "In case I get staked or something.  God, I never—"

"I won' let that 'appen.  'Sides, you're souly girl.  You won' be out there causin' new the Chosen bird all kinds 'f hell.  Fact, I'd bet you'd be right appreciated in that department.  Trainer of the next generation, an' what all."  At that, he drifted away thoughtfully.  "'Ey, ever think of that?  I mean, not as in a forever thing, but—"

"Make the transition from Slayer to Watcher?" she replied cynically.  "I want out of it all, Will.  You don't get that—"

"Yeh, I do.  But you said it yourself, kitten.  'S not possible for you to turn your back to it.  You're addicted.  You need the power like you need blood.  Like your friends need air."  He sighed.  "You made the decision a long time ago.  Ripper told me all 'bout it.  What 'appened when those wankers in the Council decided to test you based on brains 'stead of brawn.  You couldn't jus' be Buffy.  You needed to be the Slayer.  You _are _the Slayer.  I don' think any's faced the rotten load you 'ave."

There was menacing truth behind his words, not by intent rather for the simplicity of comprehension.  She knew everything he said was accurate — it reflected the root of her fears with stunning practicality.  "I can't let this be it," she cried emptily.  "I can't—"

"I'm not sayin' it is," William said softly.  And he was right.  It was merely a suggestion.  "An' really, luv, 'f you know you can't jus' watch from the sidelines for the rest of time, I'd say 's the best bet."

She hated that he could be so insightful when she still doubted herself.

Things fell silent for a long, weighty moment.  

"Will?"

"Yeh?"

"Were you happy here?"

He arched a brow and placed his coffee cup on the table.  "Whaddya aimin' at?"

"I mean it.  Were you happy?  Before Xander called about the black blood and the impending apocalypse.  You liked it here, didn't you?"

"I settled.  There's a difference."

"But you were happy."

"You mean could I figure sittin' 'round here for the rest of my unlife, lookin' in dusty books, worryin' my arse off 'bout the lot of you while knowin' I'd never see a one of you again?"  She nodded, offering no softening quality to his summary.  William sighed once more.  "I told you already…I was at the library 'cause I couldn't be where I really wanted.  But…yeh.  I was happy, I guess.  In my own way.  Books an' the like were what I did back in the pre-sired days."

Buffy nodded again, combing her hand through her hair.  "Answer me honestly then.  Please."

"What?"

"Do…do you want to stay here?  After all's said and done.  When we get back from Africa and everything's taken care of, is this where you want to be?"

A frown beset his face, and he shook his head dismissively, reclaiming his drink and indulging a long drink.  "Don' play that angle, pet.  I've told you enough; I wanna be where you are."

"I know that.  What if I stayed here, too?"

That prompted the response of a lifetime; William coughed loudly and lurched forward, releasing a mouthful of coffee back into the cup.  Reaction immediate; the Slayer burst out laughing, attracting inquiring gazes from all convenient proximities.  Recovery time was sufficient and appreciated.  Rumbles of mirth shook her small frame for long minutes — she had not had genuine reason to express such amusement in what felt like years.

"Why the bloody hell would you want to stay 'ere?" the platinum vampire demanded when he regained control of himself.  "All your family's on the other side of the planet.  What—"

"Yeah.  In Sunnydale.  On the Hellmouth.  Where I am and always will be the Slayer.  Will, what if we just…stayed here?  I could go back and get Dawn, and we—"

"Pull the Nibblet outta schoolin' so she can move to a foreign country, thousands of miles from her friends?"

"Hell-o.  She did just graduate."

"An' you jus' figure you'll pop her by Oxford, is that it?"

Buffy grumbled and rolled her eyes.  "Listen, Dawn's eighteen years old.  She'll be nineteen soon. She has her own life that she needs to take control over.  When I was her age, I'd already survived three apocalypses. With everything that she's been through, I know she can take care of herself.  She has Will and Xander there to hold her hand.  I love her more than…anything on the face of the planet.  But that doesn't mean I can sit there and watch…she's mortal…"

"This thing's gonna force you to make some bloody hard decisions," William observed understandingly.  "I can't imagine takin' you away from 'er."

"I can't imagine _being _away from her.  I know she can take care of herself…I just said that, but I know it.  And even then, when something bad happens, my first instinct is to make sure she's all right."

"You're her big sis."

"And I have to make some decisions that she'll have to respect.  I love her.  I love Willow, and Xander, and hell, even Anya.  But…" She sniffed and looked down.  "They're not going to be here forever.  You will.  If I have anything to say about it, you will.  I can't expect you to abandon everything you've done here, everything you've established with your future in mind."

He rolled his eyes.  "How many times to do I 'ave to tell you, pet?  I don' need this.  I don' need any of it.  Everythin' I want, everythin' I've ever wanted 's right 'ere in front of me."

At that, she smiled, breaking eye contact in a mixture of heartfelt warmth and aggravation.  "But you'd rather be here with me than in Sunnydale.  Please just admit that much."

The hint of unspoken challenge in her tone drew their gazes to a mutual standing once more, and he sighed and conceded.  "Sure, luv.  'F tha's what you need to hear, fine.  Yeh.  I like it 'ere.  Feel important an' respectable.  But none of that matters to me 'f I—"

"Let me make one sacrifice.  Please."  All possible counters to logicality immediately drown when he noted the seriousness in her eyes.  "Will, you're doing everything here.  I know it'll be hard, but I think when everything's considered that it's for the best.  Besides, you have a decent job here, something I can't vouch for back in Sunnydale.  You have connections and…I like it.  I really do; I like it here.  I don't really want to…but this could…I could…"

"But Dawn—"

"Yeah.  Dawn.  I'd want…" Buffy's vision blurred with the looming knowledge of imminent decision-making.  Reasoning settled behind an otherwise unreasonable frontage, and a breath of lackluster acknowledgement hissed through her lips.  "But either way…in the long run…I'll leave her, or she'll leave me.  The longer I stay, the harder it gets.  You said the same about me, remember?  I didn't understand that until now."

William smiled forbiddingly.  "Tha's the way it always is.  What's that sayin'?  'Never know how someone feels until you've walked a mile in their shoes'?  You've done more than that, luv.  You've won the bloody marathon."

"And I get it now," she agreed.  "And Dawn…she won't.  I know she won't.  But that won't convince her to come with me, and I can't force her to do something against her will.  Not now.  She's not helpless anymore, and at some point, she's going to have to realize that.  I've taught her everything I know, and for someone who isn't a slayer, she comes pretty damn close to meeting the requirements.  Up until the recent, she was my most valuable second."  When his eyes narrowed in repose, she settled back to verify.  "I didn't know Willow was still practicing."

"An' what 'f Nibblet decides to come along for the ride?" the peroxide vampire replied.

"Then she does.  I'd be thrilled to have her here.  You know how much she means to me."

He chuckled humorlessly.  "You won' be able to do it, pet.  You can't stay away from the girl, or the Hellmouth on that note.  You worry too much for her.  Sounds fancied up an' all, but 's the soddin' truth.  You love 'er too much.  Vamps aren't s'posed to go gray with worry, an' I figure you'd be lookin' 'bout Peaches's age within two weeks."

"Gee, thanks."  With an indignant huff, Buffy rolled her eyes.  "Ye of little faith."

"'S not a bad thing.  Not at all. 'S what makes you…well, you."

The Slayer leaned forward meaningfully, and without direct affirmation, he understood they were nearing the brink of no return.  "Listen," she said.  "I want you to call that Hawkins guy back.  Tomorrow, right after you get up.  This is important to you, Will.  A part of being in a relationship means making sacrifices for each other.  You've already made the biggest; I can't ask anymore than that."

"I made the biggest?" he repeated skeptically.  "When the bloody hell'd I become a sodding paradigm?"

She blinked.  "A what?"

"Example.  Role model.  Whatever."  William paused as though only catching up with his wording.  "Bloody Ripper…"     

The look of bewilderment melted into triumph, as though having just struck the end all of riches.  "See!  You see there!  You and your Giles-influenced vocab are secretly dancing in dorky joy at the thought of staying.  You said you'd rather be here than in Sunnydale—Spike, let me do that for you."

"Buff—"

"It'd be better.  Things have changed.  I can't stay there and save the world all the time.  I can't stay there and watch all my friends grow old…not when… Just think about it.  It's not like I'll be completely out of reach.  I mean, just a phone call and bam! Slayer Central."

There was ironic reasoning behind her judgment, but the better part of him tugged to turn the corner in rejection.  It was the look in her eyes that did him in; that wrought fortitude, so fierce and determined, even with everything she had put herself through.  With everything she had endured.  

A sigh tugged at William's throat in weary concession.  "Don' go 'bout changin' your mind then, luv," he warned.  "'F I call those prats an' they gimme my job, I don' want to 'ave to quit a third time."

"What do you mean _if _they give you the job back?" Buffy replied cynically.  "You know these people better than I do and even I could tell that the professor was sad to see you go.  Will, you're not going to have any trouble whatsoever."

"Well, I know that, don' I?"  He growled and looked down.  "I jus' don' fancy the idea of takin' you away from your sis.  You're needed—"

"You're not taking me away.  I'm going.  If she comes with, all the better, but she has a life to live, too."  The Slayer expelled a breath.  "If Dawnie knows what's good for her, she'll go to some boring little town called Springfield — cause let's face it, they're everywhere — and go to a boring state college, meet a boring average-joe student, fall madly in love and have dozens of boring yet adorable kids, who will never need to find out that their aunt is a vampire or that the monsters under their beds are actually…well…monsters.  She doesn't want to stay at the Hellmouth anymore than I do."  Conviction was firm and wavered only a little; she knew as well as he did that living at a distance from her sister, whom she had given more than her life to defend on multiple occasions, would be an obstacle not easy to overcome.  However, there was sense behind her words.  Sense that would come into understanding as time wore on.  

Time: the old bald cheater.

William met her eyes with conclusiveness and granted her a nod.  "I can't stop you from stayin' 'ere, 'f that's what you want," he acknowledged.  "This…'s jus' so much.  I never thought…I lived here a good while, you know.  Not so horribly long, but long enough to get attached.  When Ripper an' I left, I…there was no way anyone coulda prepared.  Gettin' back here was all I wanted to do.  I never thought you'd come back with me.  Never."  He laughed in humorless irony.  "I was jus' thinkin' it'd be a miracle 'f you din't stake me on sight."  

A line formed at the Slayer's mouth, poignant and laced with discernment.  "A lot has changed."

To that he had no rejoinder.  There was nothing to do but agree.

They endured two rounds of refills before the coffee taste ran bitter with familiarity.  The night was young by vampiric standards, but Buffy was still exhausted from the trip and in mid-process of adjusting to the time difference.  William indulged her for a final hour of touring before suggesting wisely that they retire.

"There are so many places to go," he said as they paced steadily back to the library.  "An' after all's said an' done, we 'ave forever to explore 'em, luv.  You've never been to Paris, 'ave you?  That was a favorite of Dru's.  Granted, a lil artsy fartsy for my taste, but it grows on you.  I can't begin to list all the places I've been…you want to see the Great Wall, kitten?  We'll hop on over there an' call it research."

She grinned gravely.  "I'm sure your management would just _love _that."

"Eh, sod 'em.  Like you said: they like me enough to let me come an' go as I please, 's long as I get the job done.  And really, pet, what exactly 's there to that job?"  There was a positively charged air about him.  Lively — excited.  He would never say it, of course, but she knew the prospect of staying was like receiving an early Christmas.  No one could watch his disposition and not see how much he loved it here.  The pain consuming her heart was soothed all for the sight of his reaction.  Personal sacrifices were the pinnacle of expressing love.  She knew she had done the right thing.  "Show up every now an' then, make sure the place's still there, answer a few frilly questions from the students that pop by, give 'em a good thesis topic, an' send 'em on their merry way."

The Slayer grinned and took his hand, pleased with herself.  It was the empty gratitude that came with the promise of a good solution — the sort that would consequentially not reveal its bearings for years to come.  "This is a good plan," she said solidly.  "It won't be easy."

His grip on her hand tightened.  "We've been over this, pet."

"Yeah, and we're going to go over it a thousand more times."  A high pitch of strangled sentiment.  "You're being patient with me, I know.  And I know you've been here, and that the…but… Will, I'm terrified."

"Of what?"

"What I turned into."  Instinctively, she leaned closer to him, seeking friction and comfort.  "Before…I've told Giles this already but I don't think he got it.  Before I jumped through the Gate, I attacked the Master with such…hostility.  It scared me.  I was scared then and then…I turned into that thing.  I'm so scared that…I mean, you have told me that…what did you call me?  Por…?"

"Porphyria," William answered hurriedly.  "Porphy for Harris.  'E couldn't remember 'alf the time."

"Yeah.  You said she wasn't me at all.  But…she's _in _me.  The demon's still there…it's just shut out.  What I did before I jumped was…I tore him apart."

"'E deserved it, luv."

"No one deserves that."

The peroxide vampire's face hardened resolutely.  "That bastard killed you.  'E made you into what you hate more than anythin' in the world, an' 'e used your sis to do it.  'E was gonna use _you _to end civilization as we know it.  Trust me, what happened was definitely of the deserved."

"Spike—"

"No.  Listen to me.  'F that thing 'ad let me close, I woulda ripped 'im limb from limb myself.  Soul or no soul, 'e brassed me off in a way…" William stopped suddenly before they reached the foot of the library entrance.  Instinctively, his free hand went to caress her face, touch aching with such tenderness that it took her figurative breath away.  "I woulda 'ad a decent party, too.  A demon's a demon, luv.  Yours was jus' achin' for a good brawl."

Buffy's eyes dropped and she attempted futilely to move out of reach.  "Yeah, well.  It got one."

"Never again."

She grew shrill with a note of desperation.  "But what if this demon doesn't make the deal?  What if he's like, 'Oh, you're already soul-girl.  No more soul for you!'  What if he's a big soul Nazi?"

He grinned at her analogy in spite of himself.  "He won't.  We won' leave Africa unless you got yours back in full.  Right?" The look in his eyes was fashioned with determination: the sort that would never let her down.  With a half-smile, she nodded in acceptance, moving to push the door open.

"'S been a helluva ride, 'asn't it?" William observed as they stepped inside.  It was difficult not to fall directly into habit and hopscotch across the foyer, regardless of the darkness.  "You wantin' to hit it?"

Buffy's brows domed inquisitively.  "Hit it?"

"The sack.  Hit the sack."

"No.  Not yet."  She fought off a yawn.  "It feels early somehow.  I'm tired but I don't think I could sleep.  I suppose, you being you, that there's a TV around here."

For the briefest instant, though she had said nothing to indicate such a conclusion, he looked morally affronted at the suggestion that he would inhabit any location that lacked a working telly.   "'Course, pet," he assured her.  "Even has cable an' everythin'. The whole bloody works.  Anythin' particular you fancy watchin'?"

"Let's just see what's on."  William wheeled the television out of the curator's office and positioned it before one of the tables that was indefinitely swept clean for their convenience.  "Hopefully some infomercials…it'll make me sleepy real quick."

"There's that music channel," he suggested, flicking off the lights as the glow of the small screen engulfed the room, despite its rather notable size.  "Ripper an' I'd end the night on it in the way back when.  'E knew his stuff.  Big Stones fan.  Loved the Beatles, too."

"Sure.  Who doesn't?"

He grinned sardonically.  "Yeh, luv.  But, like yours truly, 'e actually remembers 'em."

Admittedly, it had been a long time since Buffy had simply sat down to watch anything on the television.  It was nice and cozy; had an air of familiarity that arrived with the same nurturing reassurance as mother's milk — a continuity that would always be there to fall back on.

William turned the dial to VH1 just in time to catch Brad Majors and Janet Weiss knocking on the door of a large castle on a notably dark and stormy night.  The scene only looked vaguely recognizable, and she was about to request a change of channel when he erupted in amusement.

"Ah, perfect timin'.  I'm assumin' you know how to do the dance, pet."

"Dance?"

He made a face of sheer horror.  "Bloody hell, you've never seen this flick?  Quite the hype back in the 70s.  Still makes a bit of good noise from what I hear…depends on the circles you run in.  Dru loved it.  I bloody swear it was the only thing in creation wonkier than 'er.  Made me see it a dozen times till I knew the full an' swore I'd never lay eyes on it again.  Blokes dressed like birds 's where I draw the line."

"Then why are we watching it now?"

"Because I like the soddin' dance.  'S damn annoyin', but catchy an' once you get it stuck in your head for a decade, it tends to grow on you.  Come 'ere, luv."  Without awaiting invitation, he grasped her by the waist and pulled her back to him until she was resting against his chest.  "Now, jus' do this with me.  'S fun, really.  Dawn'd love it."

"You think Dawn would love a movie about—"

"Quiet.  Here it goes."

The criminologist on screen had pulled down an overhead and was guiding his audience with an object-pointer.  When the command was given, William's grasp on her waist firmed and he all but stumbled over with the enthusiastic jump to the left.  He abandoned his post at the juncture of her hips to grasp her wrists, conducting her right leg with influence to take the indicated step.  Then he directed her hands to her hips and murmured to bring her knees in tight.   

"This 'ere's the fun part," he whispered, tickling her ear with his deep baritone.

The pelvic thrust; sure to drive them insane.  Buffy rocked along with him, the focus of his manhood nudging her intimately, though it was not intentional.  Their proximity had obviously not gone unnoticed by him, though he was tempered enough to keep the situation under control.  A long, neglected moan escaped her lips and it was all she could do to keep her knees from buckling when he released hold.

"Break?" he suggested, perhaps a bit tense.  "That bird has a bloody annoyin' solo comin' up.  Then we'll give it another go."

She thought he meant to let her attempt the Time Warp unaided, but once the vocalist completed her number — a verse that sounded oddly like a female chipmunk on helium — he stepped behind her once more and grasped her around the middle.  The criminologist shouted the first dance move, and she was irrefutably lost by the time the conclusive step instigated.  They were drawn together like magnets — unable to keep apart.

The first was delicate and not beyond exploring.  How his lips had neared so quickly, she would never know.  All she grasped was that reasonable thought had escaped her and she felt him stir.  At her ear at first, whispering her name with some resignation. It sounded like surrender, and rang sweetly through her system until he dipped his head. Then she felt his lips on her, stroking her shoulder with light, feathery touches. Buffy tensed, leaning backward supportively, offering her mouth with little consequence. William's caresses became firmer, embellishing teeth and tongue, as though no longer unable to stop himself. His arms tautened their embrace, his mouth moving up her neck until he was unable to stand it anymore.  Their need was the same, and he whirled her around to capture her lips. Another wave crashed, though the kiss was initially soft and exploratory, it gained zeal at escaping such lengthy suppression. The feel of his mouth against hers swiftly drained her of all fortitude, all resolve, anything that allowed her to do anything but kiss him back. When his tongue invaded her mouth, she swallowed a whimper, wondering distantly how she came to be here in the first place. It all seemed so long ago.

As though this was the first kiss in the bloom of a new relationship.  

It was neither's fault, really.  What felt like years had passed since they last touched in any form that would define them as lovers.  His mouth swallowed her without waiting permission.  A moan of encouragement and she was lost.  They stumbled, jerked, and ultimately fell back onto the table.  The film played on but neither heard it; too lost were they in the indubitable sensation that was each other.  The long denied waves of crimson passion crashed against an otherwise stationary beach, splashing with endless joy as they sought the other out.  Searching and exploring as though it was the first time.  William poised delicately above her, his hands and mouth everywhere, unable to help himself.  Her legs wrapped around his waist and pulled down demandingly, seeking friction in the heat of need.  

Then the world came crashing down with all its subliminal realization, and at the same minute, they both paused in attentions, drawing upward to share a look of weary understanding.

She didn't know she was crying until she sobbed, then tried desperately to spool her emotions in.  Pandora's Box.  Safe.  Secure.  It seemed they sat there forever, looking at each other under the light of the same dismal knowledge.  William reached to draw her tears away, leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead, and with notable reluctance, sat up.     

"'m sorry," he choked when he found his voice.  "Oh God.  I shouldn't 'ave…Buffy, I—"

"You didn't do anything wrong, Will."  Her voice was as distant as his, sniffing to reel in another wave of tears.  "There's plenty of time for that…I just…" And then she couldn't help it.  Resignedly, surrendered to her tears, leaning forward to rest against his shoulder.  Without direction, his arms came around her.  The burden of comfortless comfort.  

"We'll fix things, luv," he promised, cradling her trembling body against him.  "Come on.  We should prolly get to sleep.  Big day tomorrow, you know."

There was no immediate reply.  Within her own good time, Buffy withdrew from his embrace and nodded.  "Sleep.  Right."  

The upper level was dark and consoling.  No words were exchanged as they readied themselves for an evening's rest.  The shadows comfortingly prevented any unchristian glimpses at what they couldn't have.  What was denied until the ordeal was over.  What she needed for the sake of reassurance, however empty, now more than ever. 

What she could not ask for.

They settled next to each other out of habit; her back spooled against his chest.  Perhaps just as absently, he reached for her, nothing of intimate insinuation, rather a method to convince his still-doubtful conscious that she was there beside him.  And despite all logistics in reasoning, thoughts of abandonment consumed her. She was so afraid of losing this that she didn't want to sleep. If there was to be the day when she found herself alone, Buffy wanted her mind full enough of memories to last forever.

It was difficult not to conclude such fears with the past she was trying to put behind her. 

_I love you, _she admitted to the void, where he could not answer. _I finally understand.  I finally confessed.  And now that it's almost over, I'm terrified.  I never get what…just please tell me I won't lose you for it._

_Not when it's almost over._

William tugged her nearer, silently answering her unspoken request.  His teeth nipped at her ear, and he nuzzled her hair amorously.  When she was convinced that, at least for the minute, he was not going anywhere — that when she awoke he would be exactly where he was now — she relaxed.  He was there.  He was always there. Beside her.  Comforting her.  

Why these idle concerns suddenly manifested into corporeal worries, she did not know.  The feeling was tight, constrictive, and uncomfortable.  She didn't like it.  

Then out of nowhere, he answered her.  He opened his mouth and said it.  Releasing a burden of shortcomings, as though the weight of the world was finally relieved of his shoulders.  The words she had been longing to hear since that night so long ago in the graveyard when more than one confession was made.  When she had revealed the cindered burnings of her broken heart, crumpled into ash and steadfastly fell outside the realm of anything that could ever be considered normal.

"There's one thing, luv," he murmured, pulling her close.  "I 'aven't been fair to you.  I've been avoidin' it for so long…tellin' all the wrong people but never you.  Never who needed to… It doesn' matter now.  Not anymore.  You've…I have to say it.  I've tried not to, but I…God help me, I love you so much.  An' we'll get through this.  I promise.  'F it's the last bloody thing I do, I'll get you through this."

There was a profuse difference between knowledge and substantiation.  A whole world was built on theory.  The understanding that his guilt and grief would forever keep him from expressing anything into materialism.  She had known this. 

The revelation came so flippantly that she lent pause for a moment, partly convinced the words were nonexistent; materialized from her own concerns and wary convictions.  A song she had memorized, practically written.  A tune she hummed daily, rehearsing for the single minute in which she might be reimbursed.  And her eyes clouded with tears, whether by suggestion or foreknowledge, she was not sure.  She was crying without feasible provocation.

He waited as she calmed, holding her tightly to him in a blanket of everlasting warmth.  When her vision returned, Buffy forced herself to face it and twisted in his arms to meet his gaze. What she saw nearly took her breath away. Shimmers of compassion, sincerity, kindness and…hope.

And just like that, her resolve crumpled.  Her breathing hitched and her already-cold body numbed, her eyes imploring his, peeling away the layers, hoping desperately that she wasn't seeing just what she _wanted _to see. The Slayer had never known herself to conjure something simply out of desire, and did not want to start now. Not when the collateral was this robust. 

And then every doubt was whisked away. Slowly, William lowered his head to her neck where he nuzzled gently, and the words came again, deliberate, and she knew she was not dreaming. "'m sorry, luv.  I tried an' I…Buffy…I can't…I love you so bloody much it kills me."

Those were his words.  They were of his origin, his construction, and he was saying them now.  To her.  He loved her.  She had always known it, but now it was certain.  Now there was no room to doubt.  No need to question the future.  He loved her, and that was all that mattered.

The burden of release. Buffy felt herself dissolve into tears. With a sudden surge of energy, she shot forward, forcing him up and clasping him tightly, holding him to her, refusing to let go. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, unsuccessfully trying to muffle her cries, quivering with discharge.  Every fiber of her being burst with glorious liberation.  

It was the highest state of contentment she had known since he came back into her life.  Pure in all its form.  A true sign that the future was theirs, really theirs, and that…

The Slayer cried out suddenly in a flash of fresh pain, and her head fell back, hand reaching instantaneously to clutch his arm in support.  "Will!" she gasped.  "Oh, God, it's coming.  It's—"

The love in his eyes intensified if possible, battling age-old concern as he leapt forward, grasping her before she lost balance.  "Buffy…"

"Will…Spike…" She keeled forward, howling her anguish.  "Oh God, oh God, I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry!  It's…here it comes, here it comes—"

William leaned forward in extended panic.  A dull awareness had settled behind a knowing gaze, and his vision blurred with tears.    "No, luv.  Hold on.  I…I din't—"

"Do something!" She fell back in affect, stumbling away from the bed and onto the floor, arms bracing her plummet.  Her skin scraped roughly against the nightstand and she hissed in pain.  "Angel's…the—"

When he kneeled beside her, his face was a washboard of sorrow and penance.  She broke at the visage and sobbed, unable to do anything but indicate the drawer.  Inside was the cross her first love had given her a lifetime ago, cased protectively where she had kept it in her pocket all through the flight.  Closed as not to sear her skin. Brought as a good luck charm.

The last was coming.  William understood without direction.  She pulled her hair out of the way and allowed the clasp to fix behind her neck.  The sacred emblem burned with the impact of a thousand flames, and while her will begged a complete collapse in fortitude, she would not allow it.  Not now.

"God, Will," she gasped.  "I love you so much.  I'm sorry I couldn't hold on.  Forgive me.  Forgive me.  I'm so—"

She lurched forward and screamed.  Words tore from her throat beyond comprehensibility.  She couldn't see or feel — engulfed only in the sensation of being ripped from herself.    

It was fortunate that she could not see the smile that broke across her face before her lover could pull away.  Before she looked into his eyes again and knew.  Before the lasting affect of her one moment of happiness seeped in for all its horrid reality.

The world was an ugly place.

And just like that, she was gone.

Author's Note: First thing's first…I'm a big RHPS buff, if you couldn't tell.  I made the mistake of listening to the soundtrack while writing this chapter…and, well, what can I say?  Stuff happens.

I'd also like to note that since beginning the story, I've changed very few obstacles from the original outline.  Buffy's transition at the end of this chapter is vital to the conclusion – (yes, kiddies, it is coming soon).  Furthermore, I felt it imperative to address the issue of true happiness.  This has been a debate in my circle of Buffy-fanatics for some time.  I hope that came across.  

Other than that, my thanks to everyone who has been patient and followed along the tale far.  As my first BtVS fic, the support I've received means more than you can imagine.


	42. La Vie En Rose

**Chapter Forty-One**

The library was ill-equipped with consecrated emblems and crosses.  In the years of their working together, William and Giles had been expertly on guard to preserve a vampire-friendly environment.  The days preceding their leave of Sunnydale had not found reason to bring wooden stakes and vials of holy water.  No one could ever accuse Buffy of being unqualified in her preparations—however, the thought simply had never arisen.  They were not here to slay vampires; they were shooting for permanent soul restoration.

The bindings he had her in were not going to hold.  That concerned him on a purely minimal level; it was the way her eyes followed him that had him rattling in apprehension.  The chain around her neck was acting to the fullest of its potential, weakening her to the point where her struggles were unproductive.  

But that would not last.

William didn't allow himself to stop and think.  He knew he would lose all resolve if his thoughts caught up with him.  If the reality of the situation he had inadvertently worked himself into combusted in aluminous knowledge, he was sure to break down in the forfeit of all hope.  

And he could not allow that.

"Phone, phone, phone," he muttered hurriedly, diving over mountains of comforters and pillows.  He felt the creature's eyes boring into his back and did his best to ignore it.  "Where's the bloody phone?"

Porphyria sat solemnly in the corner, bound to a chair, cross burning around her neck.  The smoke rising off her skin emanated the most abysmal scent he had ever had the misfortune to endure.  He wondered if Angel's keepsake would wear a hole through her chest cavity.  Wondered how long it would hold her docile before the pain became too much.

The voice that echoed resoundingly in her sweet tone killed him all the more—he could not help himself.  William collapsed as the world crashed around him.  He could not look at her.  The face of the thing he created.  A creature constructed out of his own shortcoming.  Someone's idea of a cruel joke to respite the release of such pure ardor.

It was the suffering she wanted.  The suffering she was waiting for.  When the tide crashed effectively behind his eyes, Porphyria leaned toward him as far as her constraints would allow.  She was simply beaming with the prospect of a new toy; collecting it like church collapses.  "Poor Spike," she drawled nastily.  "Now then.  Don't you see what love does to people?"

He refused to grant her his eyes.  Anything that insinuated he was listening. The never-ending crusade to locate the phone occupied his full attention.

"I told you once that the power of your charm was enough to make me disgusted with myself," the creature continued mockingly, delighting in her victory.  "To think…the power of your _love _was enough to yank away my poor soul.  Not even the _fun _way, you spineless coward."

William's eyes brightened in discovery, and he leapt for the phone as it shifted soundlessly under one of the goose-down pillows.  Once in grasp, he knew he could not keep his back to her.  Not under such circumstances.  Drawing in a breath, he turned, dialing, and fixed a trained dead-set gaze on her disdainfully spiteful grin.  

The volume was loud enough for the entire library to answer.  "Hello?"

"Ripper!  'S Will.  Somethin'—"

"GILES!" Porphyria screamed.  "Giles, he hurt me!  Oh God, GILES!"

That was it.  William growled maliciously and hurdled to his feet.  "Shut your gob!" he barked.  "You stupid bitch!  I'll—"

Separated by an ocean as they were, he saw the look on the Watcher's face fall as clearly as if he was standing before him.  The creature continued crying her insolent pleas in a shrill that could undoubtedly be heard throughout the neighborhood.  The visage she presented was so achingly horrific that he felt he would go blind with the weight of self-degradation if he lingered another second. 

William stumbled into the hallway outside his bedchamber, panting harshly into the phone.  "She…Ripper, she—"

"I can tell," came the solemn, desolate reply.  "Oh dear.  Our friend is back.  Quickly…how did it happen?"

"I…" His eyes fell shut in sore responsibility, and the dull pain harbored in his chest screamed for release.  "I din't mean to.  I wouldn't 'ave 'f I'd known.  God, you gotta believe me.  She…I…"

A cold note of lasting familiarity struck Giles's tone.  One that he had not heard in years.  One he had hoped never to stress again.  It washed his aching muscles with an artic storm.  He understood then.  Everything came to light with painful simplicity.  Despite what happened now, what they decided to do from here, things would never be the same.  Never.  The library was tainted to him now.  A place of ill-conceived hopes and ideals.  He had destroyed the woman he loved with the burden of declaring his own.  He could not hope to keep her for the world.

And yet there was still Africa.  Somehow, some way, they had to get to Africa.

Porphyria screamed madly from the shadows of her seclusion.  "LOOK AT THE BLOOD!"

"I can't believe you would do something so foolish," the Watcher snapped.  "When you're so close.  When you know what is at stake!  What were you thinking, Will?  What possibly—"

"We didn't shag," the peroxide vampire said softly.  "I knew enough not to do that—thanks ever so for the confidence.  Y'really think Buffy woulda done somethin' so stupid with the way she was feelin'?  When she knew what would happen?  'F you don' trust me, at least trust 'er."

A note of tangible remorse hung in repose.  The affects of apology were immediate.  "God, Will," Giles replied.  "I'm sorry.  I…I believe I've been speaking with Xander quite too much as of the recent.  How did it happen, then?"

"I…I told 'er…I told 'er before we went to sleep that I loved her."  William sighed heavily.  "Don' fall off the wagon so soon, mate.  'S my fault.  I shouldn't…I—"

"You told her you loved her?"

"I 'aden't…I've been such a blind idiot.  I 'aden't at all—"  

_"GILES!" _ Porphyria screamed in the background.  "Giles!  _He did it!  _He did this to me!  Baby hurt me bad.  No biscuits for baby."

There was a painful, relenting pause.  "She…tell Red to try the curse again.  I can't do this.  Tell 'er—"

"She's not here," the Watcher replied, his voice rising octaves.  "She went with Angel back to LA.  Wesley received a phone call from their associates…they needed as much help as they could get.  I'll do my best to get a hold of her…Will: you _must _get Buffy to Africa.  Perhaps there—"

The peroxide vampire's eyes bulged.  "Because she's gonna fight for her soul now?  Ripper, p'raps you don' get the entire gig.  But—"

Giles continued as though he had not spoken.  "If I cannot contact Willow before you arrive…William, I'm entrusting this to you.  You can do it, can't you?"

No forethought was required.  The reply was instant, coated with conviction and the strongest strings love could afford.  "Of course I bloody well can!" he sniped.  "But goddamn, Ripper, you _gotta _get a hold of Red.  I don' know how the hell I'm gonna get her there without 'er jumpin' into a stream of sunshine or somethin'.  Or 'er breakin' free an' runnin' a stake through my chest.  She has Peaches's necklace on now an' that seems to be balancin' her…God, you—"

"There's a drug you can administer," Giles said hurriedly.  "You say you have her incarcerated for the time being?"

"'S not gonna hold, mate…"     

"Then you best hurry.  I have supplies and mixtures at the flat.  Are you listening, Will?  The normal dose will not be enough for her.  A slayer bred with vampiric abilities…no, no…not enough at all.  You'll have to give her two, perhaps three—"

"Jus' tell me what the fuck to make an' I'll make it!" The sounds stemming from the bedchamber were increasing in frequency, cries made with torturous contempt.  "How long before you can get—"

"You're not hearing me," the Watcher berated sternly.  "You _cannot _wait for Willow to perform the curse.  I'm not even sure if it would be affective at our proximity.  Angel was never specific in the…there's every chance that it would, but you _have _to get her to Africa.  Do you understand?  You have to get her to that demon before she does something she'll never forgive herself for."

The world tumbled to a hauntingly low reality.  William felt the room spinning and fought to maintain balance.  The safe hold was gone.  There was no reliability to depend on.  It was just him.  Him and Porphyria.  Him and Porphyria…and Africa.

"I'll do my best," Giles was saying.  "But you can't wait.  If she gets out and does more damage…Will…you must get her out of there.  Do whatever it takes.  Just do it."

"I understand," he replied catatonically.  "Get 'er to Africa.  I can do that.  Where…what do I need?"

"A bit of everything.  There's a book there.  You know the one in Greek?  It's called…God, I'm not going to pronounce this right…it's _Δαίμονες δηλητηρίασης._ You remember it?  The one that deals with mixtures and spells to use on demons.  The potion is called _Ανικανότητα του θανάτου_.  You do understand Greek, right?"  He did not wait for verification.  Questions were rolling off with such rapidity that he had no time to stop.  "Of course you do.  Yes.  Do you think you can manage to knock her out?  You need to keep her incapacitated as long as possible."  The Watcher paused, a heavy note settling in his tone.  "Good God," he said.  "I'm so sorry you have to go through this again.  If I could be there—"

"Don't."  William glanced to the closed door, flinching as another high-pierced accusation flung to a crowd that was no longer listening.  "Don't even, old man.  We both know this is the last place anybody would wanna be."

He hung up without awaiting a reply.  There was nothing else to say.  

"Hold the phone, luv," he said, speaking to no one.

"Spike?" Porphyria cooed distantly, the notes of horrid despair leaking away from her voice.  "I realize I've been terribly naughty, and I've learned my lesson.  I won't ever kill a slayer again.  That's your job.  I get that now.  Be a dear and untie me so I can go all Buffalicious on you, okay?"

The platinum vampire shivered and turned, making the long march back into the heart of his endless purgatory.  He saw the eyes of the creature that was not his girl.  The face he had created on an act of whimsy.  She was right…too right.  His love had destroyed her.  Here she was: a monster of his own making.  

_But there was no way he could have known._

"I gave you happiness," William observed blandly.  

"You wanna make me _really _happy?" the Buffy-creature retorted suggestively.  "Let me go, lover, and I'll show you what—"

"I gave _you _happiness."

"So you noticed this too, eh?"  She was wriggling now, the cross rubbing tantalizingly against the blackened mark in her chest.  "And now you're killing me, baby.  You don't want that.  You don't want to _kill _the woman you love.  Let me go and—"

"How?"

Porphyria arched a brow.  "Well, I'm no expert, but I'd think you'd start by—"

"How did I give Buffyhappiness?"  It was beyond the brink of believability.  He knew she loved him, but happiness was not something the Slayer came by with a man in her life.  If anything, it often caused her more grief than release.

And he had given her happiness.

"By being a _careless motherfucker who said the goddamn wrong thing!" _she screeched, straining forward in her bonds.  "Let me the fuck go, or I swear, you won't know what _pain _is by the time I'm through!"   

"Daddy's got to go out."  He was not aware of who was speaking, but the voice sounded remarkably like his own. All sense of substantial veracity was gone, rendering him at an absolute loss.  "But he'll be back soon enough.  Be a good girl for Daddy."

Then he hit her.  Hard.  A nice firm slam to the back of the head as she collected her thoughts, strong enough to cause extensive damage to one of lesser stamina.  The creature growled a dying threat before falling limp.  Where the fuel behind his strike had originated, he did not know.  He barely felt the aftereffects.  Barely felt anything beyond the knowledge that he had precious little time.

The sun was still hours from rising, but that wasn't enough.

"Make things right," William murmured, moving for the door.  His words were a reflection of his earlier promise, repeated subconsciously for an unknowing audience. "'F it bloody kills me, pet…"

At that moment, it seemed it would.

*~*~*

The sun had just peeked over the horizon by the time the concoction was prepared.  A quick trip to Giles's apartment supplied him with everything he needed, and despite his inner will, he knew the actual preparation needed to be done where he could keep any eye on the creature harbored in his bedroom.  He spent the entirety of that time in the foyer of the library, there and not there.  So far beyond himself that the only consistent thought to maneuver through his conscious was the repetition that the potion had to be made.  That he would fail her, Giles, everyone if this one deed was not done right. 

And still, the knowledge that he—William the Bloody—had provided that one moment her true happiness had yet to firmly sink in.  It was not in character with a man of his nature.  Despite everything that had happened, everything to suggest the opposite, such reality was so far beyond him that the mere thought was too much to grasp.

How could _he _have given her happiness with words?  Just words.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  Words were an intangible entity—one could not grasp a sentence or promise and coddle it in their arms.  Words were nothing beyond the expression of oneself.  She had known he loved her.  She said so time again.  

And yet…

William shook his head heavily, tears blurring Greek terminology into a massive inkblot.  The Watcher was not mistaken in his understanding of the foreign idiom, but it had admittedly been years since the need to sit down and read had arisen.  There were a thousand languages he was exposed to, fluent in many and well rehearsed enough in the rest to get through changing society.  Greek had been offered in his boyhood days, and his mother had insisted he learn every form of verbal communication possible.

He did not know how to thank her.

Every half hour, he made himself cover trek up the stairway to check on his unsolicited dozing guest.  There was no sure way to tell if she was still unconscious or performing a wondrous mirage of such based on sheer appearance.  William walloped her steadily with each visit and received no reaction.  She remained submissive and silent, not arising to any temptation, however wicked.  Resoundingly still and suspicious.

The potion Giles suggested would be strong enough to hold her for at least two days—hopefully more.  William kept brewing until he ran out of surprise, refusing to let himself stop until he had enough servings to accommodate four vampires at best.   The instructions recommended insulin shots for dependability but assured that drinking straight from the mouth guaranteed the best results.  He filled two vials and poured the rest in rich helpings of blood.  Best to keep her fed and maintained—killed two birds with one stone.

Passenger flights to Africa were booked until the end of the week, though William kept constantly ahead of the game.  A cargo plane was due to leave that afternoon, and he would be on it.  Reverting to old habits for such lengths.  It was an odd feeling.  

Porphyria was still dormant when he approached with the treatment.  She had slumped over—her eyes peacefully shut, a look of pure contentment spreading her features.  It was an expression that belonged steadfast to the Slayer.  She had no right to attempt its claim.  A rush of pain and anger tackled him blindly, and he hissed a seething breath through his teeth and drew in another of cold, tasteless air.  

"You bloody bitch," he murmured.  There was no reply.

Several paces forward presented no change.  A few more and she remained neutralized.  It wasn't until a mug full of drugged blood was under her nose that the creature finally stirred. 

"Mmm…that you, baby?"

William released another breath, his resolve hardening.  "Drink up," he commanded roughly.  

"You're feeding me, now?"

"Can't very well 'ave you dyin' on me, now can I?  Come on, Porphy.  Open wide."

At that, her eyes opened.  Narrow slits of lifeless merriment that nearly doubled over in joy to see the barren look on his face.  "You don't want me to die, then?" she replied saucily.  "Have something better in mind?"

"Enough of that.  Drink before I force you."

"Gee.  Why does _that _sound familiar?"

The reaction was immediate.  He drew his hand back and hit her hard, menacing gaze never leaving her.  When she looked back, he felt his insides engulf with cold reassurance.  Every glance simply did more to prove the same.  That was not Buffy.  That was a creature that he could kill if he had to.  If it came down to it.

By God, it would _not _come down to it.

The infliction did little to wear Porphyria's dark sense of humor.  She chuckled to herself, flexing her jaw and offering a helpless shrug.  "Go ahead, Spike.  Beat on me all you want.  Sure, it's easy for you now.  I almost had you before, and I can do it again."  She glanced at the cross around her neck.  It was smoking still but seemed to have lost its power over her.  He knew better.  A battle of stamina was all it was.  She was an expert at maintaining self-discipline.  "You don't play by the rules, you bad boy, you."

"Sure, luv.  Keep treadin' down that road.  I'll be sure to let you go right quick."  

She flexed her brows suggestively.  "Why don't you do it, Mr. Big Talk?  Force me to drink.  It'll be funny."

William grinned poignantly.  "'F tha's the way you want it."

Whether or not she ever saw it coming was in the eye of the beholder.  She had not the time or space to defend herself; the shot came from the right and dove elegantly into her arm.  Before she could react, pull away, or even throw him a menacing glare, he pumped the dosage in full.  

Then it was over.  Her muscles went pliant and limp and she expelled a slow moan before slipping from consciousness.  The noise was so _Buffy _that it nearly made him flinch.

Nearly.

William reached for the cup filled with pig's blood, arched her neck for a convenient and ran his forefinger over her lips.  A sigh compressed tightly against his body.  The need to breathe had never been as potent when he was alive.  

It was not time for such reflections.   

"Sleep tight, kitten," he whispered.  "It'll all be over soon."              


	43. The Last Dance

**Chapter Forty-Two**

"I think my favorite part," Dawn said enthusiastically, leaning over the chocolate shake Xander had purchased at the local malt shop, "was when the orchestra played _Another Brick in the Wall _instead of _Pomp and Circumstance._  My God, it was so hilarious!  The director got up in their faces…like seriously.  Good thing it was just the rehearsal.  I have a feeling shit woulda hit the fan if they'd tried to pull that at the actual ceremony."

Harris grinned, chuckling lightly.  He leaned backward into the comfort of Revello Drive's worn and hackneyed sofa.  Pullout bed it was not, but after such extensive use, it easily rivaled the comfort of a Denver Mattress. "Now, why couldn't my graduation have been something like that?"

"Because of the giant snake?" Anya offered.

"Oh.  Right." Wearily, he shook his head.  "Really, kid, you got off lucky.  Imagine spending the last minutes of your free life as you know it worrying if tomorrow would…" He stopped when he caught himself, receiving dangerous glares from all angles.  "Again with the sheepish answers and the…" A flush of relief filled his face.  The Watcher was approaching.  "Giles!  My man!  What's up?  Any news from Will?"

"I think he means Will-ow," the vengeance demon clarified supportively.  "When there's more than one running around, it becomes imperative to specify."

"Let's get one thing straight, Ahn," Xander retorted.  "As everyone here knows, or at least I hope…if I _was _referring to Spike, I'd call him Spike.  That entire 'answering to Will' thing is disturbing in more ways than one."

No one had paused to gauge the look on the Watcher's face.  

"When there is someone here who knows him as Will," Anya said, gesturing without following her hand, "you should do the polite thing and specify.  He might mistake one for the other.  But that's beside the point.  I—"

Dawn's face fell with cold recognition and she violently motioned for the others to shush.  "Giles.  Giles, what is it?  What happened?"

A chill swept the room.  In an instant, Xander was on his feet, face stressed with worry.  "Did you get a call?" he demanded.  "Are they having trouble in LA?  We'll bust a move out there so fast—"

"I have not spoke to Willow since she left," he said softly.  "I would assume she would call if things went awry.  As far as I know, all is well."  A long breath escaped his body.  He did not offer to continue.

Dawn stepped forward and placed a delicate hand on his arm.  "Giles," she said slowly.  "What happened?"

"It's…" The Watcher looked positively shaken and had to move to sit down before continuing.  "Will…William called.  Buffy has…she's lost her soul again."  

A dumbfound silence draped over them in horrible reflection.  The look on the girl's face blanked like a newly cleaned washboard.  She drew her hand back as though scorched, tears welling in her eyes.  Bland, emotionless tears that rolled without sobs.  Without changing her outward demeanor.  As if her body craved to mourn but the rest of her would not allow it.

Xander stumbled back, finding the arm of the sofa before he lost his balance.  "H-how did it happen?"

"Well, Sherlock Holmes, I'm guessing she and Spike engaged in sexual relations. Isn't that what took Angel's soul away?" Anya observed, tone blunt and to the point, as was custom. 

"No," Giles retorted shortly.   

She frowned in confusion.  "Sex didn't take Angel's soul away?" 

"No…yes, it did, but…" The Watcher sighed, features animating with annoyance.  Even that visage was welcome.  Any reaction was better than none.  "Will and Buffy…they didn't.  They didn't sleep together."

"Yeah," Xander snapped defensively.  "She would know not to do that.  Especially, well…with what happened the last time.  And again with the entire 'I just killed Faith' thing."

"Neither of them would," Giles agreed.  "Apparently, Will finally confessed his feelings to her, and she—"

"What do you mean, finally?" Dawn asked, looking up sharply.  "It's not like he's never said it before.  If memory serves, we couldn't get him to shut up about it before he left."

The Watcher nodded.  "Precisely.  With his return, he was afraid of what such would…he had severe reservations, and from his perspective, they were understandable. I suppose with what he told us before they left, he concluded that withholding his feelings was…futile."

"So the one time he should have spoken up, he didn't," Xander summarized disbelievingly.  "Trust a guy like Spike to…" He trailed off in what was supposed to be disgust, but inherent sympathy coated his tone instead.

"Willow.  Have you called Willow?" the Summers girl demanded.

Giles heaved a long sigh.  "I tried as soon as I got off the phone…she didn't pick up.  No one picked up.  Not on her cell phone or the secretarial line at Angel Investigations.  I've left a message…but…" There was a brief pause.  "I've told Will to go ahead.  He needs to get her to Africa as soon as possible.  He has also agreed to…if it should come down to it, he says he will compete the trials for her."

"Are we all forgetting that soulless Buffy probably won't be in support of that idea?" Xander demanded, his voice reaching a new octave.  "How the hell is Spike supposed to—"

"I gave him instructions."

"Oh, gee.  There we go.  The epitome of reassurance.  Thanks for that, G-Man.  Sorry when I say I don't buy it."

"He knows what to do. I trust him implicitly in this matter.  I just worry…he's alone with her."  The Watcher shook his head heavily. The weight of decision was already buried in his eyes.  What came next surprised no one. "I'm going to get on the first plane back to London.  When all is said and done, that is where he will return.  I need to be there when he does.  Perhaps the Council will be willing to—"

"Stake her real good?" Harris barked.  "God, Giles!  You know these people better than anyone here, and even _I _can tell that that's not such a good idea!"

"These are special circumstances," he retorted.  "Buffy is a Slayer.  Is.  Was.  She has one of the most notorious names in the demon world.  The Council wouldn't kill her.  Given our dealings with William, I'd be willing to bet they would help in any way—"

Dawn's eyes widened.  "Yeah, just like they _helped_ Angel!"   

"Giles, this is the _Council _you're talking about.  Remember them?  We don't like those guys."  Xander sighed heavily.  "We gotta find Willow."

"I'm not sure if that will work."   

The Summers girl nearly doubled over.  "What?  Why wouldn't it?"

There was a brief silence.  The Watcher removed his glasses ritualistically.  "I cannot say for certain," he replied a minute later.  "It's an intuition.  A bad intuition, granted, but…there are just some things you know.  They are on the other side of the world.  Alone.  And even if we are miraculously able to help in some way, for Buffy, it might be too late."

"So we're just going to sit back and assume everything turns out okey dokey?" Harris demanded hotly.  "Sorry, I can't accept that."

"That is _not _what I said," Giles retorted.  "I will never stop trying to help.  You should know that.  If I have not reached Willow by tonight, I intend to leave for LA.  She does not have the supplies with her to perform the curse, and it took Wesley several days to locate another orb. What I'm saying, Xander, is that it is imperative that we do not establish all faith in magic.  There is every reason to believe we will not be quick enough.  Do you understand?"  

The spite slowly vacated the other man's demeanor, and his body relaxed as a sigh rolled off his shoulders.  "Right," he agreed a second later.  "I see what you're getting at.  So what until we hear from one of them?  Just sit here, twiddling our thumbs?"

"We should leave for LA now," Dawn said hurriedly.  "I'm not going to wait around.  No way.  Nuh uh.  Giles, come on.  Let's leave.  Let's leave now."

The Watcher looked at her solemnly.  "It is better that you stay here."

"What?  No!  No way.  I _can't _stay here.  I gotta be doing something.  Please!"

"Dawn—"

"If something happens, I won't forgive myself.  Get it?  You remember the last thing I said to her?  With the hostility and the…and the…me being me five years ago?!  If that's the last thing she remembers me for. I…" With an emotional gasp, she turned away, hand going to her mouth.  "Whatever you do, let me…"

Anya stepped forward and offered her back a few impassive pats of reassurance. "There, there, Dawnie," she said.    

"You can't blame yourself for that," Xander rejoined sympathetically.

With an aggravated sniff, the girl pulled away from everyone's reach, wiping her eyes on her sleeve angrily.  "Says you!" she spat.  "You who gave me the third degree!  Don't go switching sides now.  You were right.  And I—"

"You were stressed, hon," he replied.  "So was I.  We'd all had what is safe to call the longest week of our lives.  Buffy knows you love her.  If you didn't, you wouldn't have reacted at all."

"I…" Dawn's vision clouded with tears and she sank sullenly into the chair adjacent to the coffee table.  "You're right, of course.  You're always right.  But that doesn't stop me from feeling _horrible, _get it?  No matter what you say, I'm still going to…please, Giles.  Let's go.  Let me go with you.  Let's find Willow."

"I'm not sure how much assistance you could—"

"I don't care!  Just let me do something.  Let me _feel _like I'm helping.  Take my mind somewhere that's away.  Is that too much to ask?"

The Watcher heaved a long breath.  "Will it ease you?" he asked softly.  "Even under such circumstances?"

"What _else _am I going to do to feel better?" she demanded.  

"Mmm…good point."  He glanced to Xander.  "Are you two well to stay here?  I need someone to be on alert for a phone call either from Will or…Willow."  He frowned a bit at his wording and received dubious glances from all directions.  "At any rate, she needs to know what has happened, even if she cannot help."

"And until then?"

Giles pursed his lips; features contorted with more worry than one human being should be allowed to bear.  "Pray."

*~*~*

He had vowed never to visit this place again.

Of course, over the past several years, William had made more than one promise to himself that now lay amidst the thousand others broken by lack of willpower and time.  He had pledged never to set foot in Sunnydale for the remainder of his unlife, to never come in contact with any of the Scoobies—namely, Buffy Summers, to never let anyone know that he bore a conscience to coincide with countless misgivings.  Once upon a time, he had sworn to protect Dawn and proved abortive.  Not wittingly, but it was a failure nonetheless.  Another nameless shortcoming.   

The bundle in his arms weighed with sufficient prompt.  William drew in an emblematic breath and eyed his objective wearily.  Not thirty-six hours earlier, he had assured Giles that he could endure the trials once more, if only for her.  He could.  He would.  He fight to the bitter end, or die trying.  

That did not make the approach any simpler.

The duster lay restlessly over Porphyria's unconscious form, blocking her from sunlight exposure.  Twilight had fallen a half hour before and he had not yet moved to uncover her face.  It hurt to look at her.  

All reservations aside, there was no delaying the inevitable.  It was time.

William prowled forward, moving effortlessly through the same tribal village that he had occupied all those years ago.  An eternity had passed since he had last made the journey.  He remembered how it felt to crawl from those caverns—befuddled, pained, and repentant.  Struck with more grief than he could bear.  

A local approached, features wrought with instinctual and manifest panic.  Was it the same that had issued the warning that fateful night?  Memorizes were fuzzy and mixed in a blur of recognition.  He couldn't think far that back without flinching.  _"__Toyenza coyengara. Erio mtuwana," _the villager hissed.  

"Sod off," the vampire replied dispassionately.  "'F I told one of yeh, I've told a thousand.  I don' bloody care about permission."

His words were empty and poorly aimed.  Shivers of presentiment ran up his spine in affect.  The native yelled something else, but he wasn't paying attention.  There was nothing between him and his destination.  Nothing beyond everlasting redemption.  No more boundaries to cross.

None…except one.

The cave was just as he remembered it—dark and menacing.  Something that would cause a creature of the darkest origin to recoil in fear.  The lighter was not easily accessible, but he did not need it.  Memory served well enough, and without substantiation, William could make out the paintings artistically smeared on the rock foundation.  Every image was as vivid as ever: depictions of people in pain, pouring of blood.  His arms were growing weary, but he knew he could carry Porphyria as far as was needed.  He refused to set her down in this place.

A shudder swept through the cavern, and he instantly recognized that he was no longer alone.  Ridding his expression of all looming trepidation, he drew in a breath and turned to face a pair of all-too-familiar green eyes, glowing with sparks of ember.  

"An old visitor," the predicted deep voice acknowledged.  "The vampire seeks me again."  A long, inquisitive pause.  William was sure his anticipation would wear away any strains of time, but he was wrong.  A thousand years seemed to pass before he spoke again.  "And again about a woman.  About the Slayer."

"Wow," the platinum blond retorted, less courageous than he sounded.  It was pointless trying to conceal edgy nerves, but instinct refused to let him relax and conform.  "Impressive, mate.  I see that bloody perception of yours 'asn't moved an inch.  Are these clairvoyant tendencies a part of the gig, or jus' a habit you got annoyingly good at?"  

"You seek permanent restoration for the Slayer."

Cold, empty confidence chilled his veins.  "Again with that insight."

"And you dare present yourself before us once more. Your compensations have been repaid.  Our deed has been performed.  We owe you nothing."

"Yeh.  An' 'f I was here about me, that might be a problem."  William lifted the unconscious vampire in his arms expressively.  "I'm 'ere for her.  Right?  She gets what I got.  Made a promise to the lady, an' I'm not leavin' till—" 

_"She_ does not seek restoration," the demon rumbled.  "She has embraced what she became.  You chose to deny your origin.  There is nothing that can be done for her."

"Bloody right there is.  You din't take me the firs' time around.  I'm ready to 'ave another go."

The laugh he received in respite was cold and mocking.  Shivers sprouted across his skin in affect.  "This is not about you.  It was never about you.  Not when you crawled to us before, and not with your return."  The eyes of the creature glowed maliciously.  "This is all about her."

"Again.  I'm all with the impressed.  Can we get on with it?"

"The woman you hold does not seek such atonement," the demon repeated.  "It must be desired by the beholder."    

The Cockney's eyes darkened menacingly and he clutched her tighter to his chest, protective in a frontage of offense.  "'F you don' want to help us, I suggest you wait," he spat.  "Red'll work 'er mojo an' then the Slayer'll be revved to earn it 'erself."

"The Witch." Something hard fell within the pit of William's stomach.  A dark, foreboding sensation of general bad business.  He had the certain whim to run but his feet would not budge.  He would not allow himself such leave.  Not when so much depended on his resolve.  "The Witch will not be reached.  Her magic cannot touch the Slayer within these caverns."   

"Then I'll 'ave to bloody do it myself, won' I?" the vampire growled.  "Buffy wants a sodding soul, an' I'm gonna get 'er one.  Throw what you like at me—I'm wise to you now."

Another long chuckle sounded through what had to be endless tunnels.  "The dark warrior returns," the demon said mockingly.  "The trials are not as you remember them."

His jaw hardened determinately.  "All the better."   

"Fighting for the namesake of another.  Another whose heart is blacker than any you have had the privilege to touch."

William shrugged.  "Well, said it once, I'll say it again.  The bitch is gonna see a change.  Gimme your best, mate.  I'm ready for anythin'."

There was a long pause, then a rumble of what could be construed as endorsement.  "One battle," the demon decided.  "To the death."

The peroxide vampire's brows arched confidently.  "I guess the trials aren't as I remember 'em," he observed.  "You must be losin' your edge.  'S that all I gotta do?  Defeat one of your sodding baddies?"

"To the death," came the repetitious reply.

"Not a problem.  Took care of your last boy real good din't I?"  William finally conceded to lower the precious cargo in his arms to the ground, propping her comfortably against a slab of stone.  With some hesitation, he revealed her face beneath the duster, grinning poignantly to himself.  "I do it for you, luv," he whispered.  Then, straightening, he took a good look around the vacant space surrounding him before he turned back to the demon.  "Where's this boy of yours?"

The answer came so quickly that by the time he gathered what had occurred, there was no room for recovery.  Something the size of a small anvil crashed against his legs, sending him spiraling to the rock cave wall with harsh impact.  An eye edged open wearily as darkness like he had never felt consumed him whole.

"Right here," Porphyria drawled as she advanced.  "You see, that's the problem with you.  Always assuming it's a _boy _who will put you down."  She was upon him within a minute, hand clinched tightly at his throat; lifting him several strained feet above the ground.  "You ready, lover?  Let's dance."


	44. Full Circle

Author's Note:  We're almost there.

**Chapter Forty-Three**

Pain was a funny thing.  For over a century, he had enjoyed inflicting it on every being to cross his path.  He bathed in it.  Cherished it.  Welcomed every sting that came with an initial punch.  Pain was another way to make love.  A ballet only his demon could enjoy.  

He remembered distinctly feeling an aching rush like none other attack his weary muscles when he awoke that first day, so long ago.  A sensation he had long taken for granted, as though every beating his body had ever endured was coming to aluminous light with a thousand times the impact.  Something he had tolerated time and time again but never _felt_.  

He certainly felt it now.  Porphyria's strong backhand consigned him against a harsh slab of cold rock, jagged edges biting through layers of skin.  Not a break.  It would not do well to snap his limbs in two.  That would rob her of hours of fun before the ultimate slam.

Where the demon had disappeared, he did not know.  It was suddenly inconsequential.

William sat up slowly, hand going to his eyes, blackened with forceful brunt.  A long scar, freshly bleeding, etched a highway down his cheek.  Wearily, he clamored to his feet, wrought determination blazing through battered muscles.  And she was advancing.  By the gleam in her burning pupils, he understood that the game was only beginning and he had already lost.

It was her words that bit with unbearable venom.  Words spoken in the voice he loved so much.  Words constructed to deride every strain of purity the world had to offer.  "'I'll do it for you, luv,'" she drawled in a mocking imitation of an empty promise.  "'Even 'f I 'ave to tear you to pieces to do it.'  Sweet, Spike.  Really.  I'm touched.  Had no idea you cared so much."  She ran for him, leaping in a cat-like lunge, tackling him victoriously to the ground.  "And here you are.  You have to kill the woman you love to win a soul for her.  Not sure what good a soul will do to a pile of dust."  Furiously, she yanked Angel's cross from her neck, not reacting to the sizzle in her hand.  The mark against her skin screamed in pain without making a single utterance.  It was difficult to look at.  "Of course," she continued coldly, lowering the pendant to his skin, skating it across his forehead and offering a smile as he started to wriggle.  "We can always find out."

William's teeth clamped tightly on the inside of his cheek to wan the pain away, but a mangled cry defiantly fought its way through his throat.

"You know," Porphyria continued, dipping the cross into the front of his shirt and pressing down with inhuman force.  The reaction came slowly, a smile spreading across her face as he released his resolve and screamed in glorious agony.  "About this humanity thing…I've decided one taste is enough to keep me full for an eternity.  So, thanks for the thought, sweetie pie, but I think I'm happier with things as they are."

He gasped to find his voice against the searing throbbing at his chest.  "'Course you are," he hissed bitterly.  "'S all free livin' from where you're sittin'.  You aren't her, pet.  No matter how you try."

At that, she balked, using the cross chain to tear his shirt down the middle.  The pain was gone the next instant, and William battled for a breath of air.  Porphyria did not look pleased.  "Gee, you don't say?  Why would I _want _to be Buffy?  Buffy is miserable.  Buffy is whiny.  Buffy is too busy feeling sorry for herself to take a look at the world around her.  Get it, Spikey?  I'm the real deal.  I know how to live and enjoy it.  I'm happier now than ever.  And all thanks to you, lover boy.  You wanted to make me happy, and by gum, you succeeded."

With desperation, he tried to sit up once more and was punched back to the ground.  She grinned wickedly and took a seat astride him, clinching him tightly between her thighs.  

"I'll rip your bloody head off," he rasped without conviction.

"Don't lie to me, you worthless prick.  Useless…" She licked her lips and reached between them, exploring her favorite method of torture.  The platinum blond strengthened his resolve, refusing to gratify the reaction she sought.  It was the first strain of control he had touched all night.  When her advances were ignored, she frowned and released him.  "Useless _and _limp.  Not much of a combination.  What are you gonna do?  Tell me.  I dare you.  Gonna kill Buffy and win us a soul, are we?  Manly William to save the day!"

He growled in respite and attempted once more to sit up.  Porphyria tsked and pinned his wrists to the rock ground, nipping at his mouth with cold, contemptuous affection.     

"Admit it," she implored.  "You like me like this.  The full of demonhood.  Everything you wanted finally at your fingertips.  No hesitation."  With that, she smiled saucily and sat up, running her hands down the expanse of his chest.  When she received no reaction, she leaned forward and lapped at the mark she had engraved with the sacred emblem and earned a very reluctant moan.  William instantly clamped down and went completely impassive. She pouted.  "Of course, I could try to do the good girl thing, if that's what'll get a rise.  How's this?  'Ooohh, I'm Buffy.  Ooohh, I have a soul.  I loooooovvee you William.  Won't you kiss me, William?  Want me to ride your big thick cock, William?" 

Another roar tore from his throat, and with menacing reprieve; he forced her upward at last.  "Stay the bloody hell away from me."

Porphyria shrugged and took a defiant step forward, arching her brows in challenge.  "Can't the fuck your brains out from a distance," she observed before allowing her eyes to drift downward.  "Can't either if you don't get it up."

A faint smile played across his lips.  "Sorry, baby.  You jus' don' do it for me."  He ran for her, driving her to the ground with a series of powerful blows and strings of incomprehensible profanity.  The assault didn't last long; she kicked him against the cavern wall once more, grumbling as she rose to her feet.

"Okay, you're beginning to get on my nerves," she said, dusting herself off.  "I told Faith that she couldn't take me before, and you know how that turned out.  What on earth makes you think you're man enough to kill me now, whereas you couldn't, oh let's say, every single time we fought?"

"This time, I want to," William replied.  "Sure, it woulda been fun in the past, but fightin' the Slayer 's a pleasure I wouldn't give up for the world.  Not a problem now.  You're not 'er.  You I wouldn't cry over."

"But you would for her?" Porphyria retorted, placing her hands over her heart with sardonic sentimentality.  "That's sweet.  You know…in a pathetic kind of way."

"You bloody bitter bitch."

"But you forget, lover…" With a strain of ferocity, she shoved him against a particularly jagged rock, nostrils flaring when the skin pierced.  "You _can't _kill me.  And even so, lose me and lose her, too.  Then you will have nothing but that old, rotten spontaneous-combustion-waiting-to-happen library to your worthless name.  And you'll have an eternity to know that you destroyed the only being on this planet dope enough to love you."

"Blind-aimin'," William growled.  "Say what you like.  I don' care."

She domed a brow.  "You should.  Think about it, Spikey.  It only took me—oops, sorry, _Buffy—_what, five years to give you any?  And four years later to admit it meant anything to her.  The first time hurts, doesn't it?  You were with Dru for a century and she _never—"_

"Finish that sentence an'—"

"You'll what?  Get knocked down again?"  Porphyria smiled maliciously.  "What are you afraid of?  The truth?  And now you're threatening to destroy the one person aside your mommy who ever had it in her to feel something…at all.  I mean, sure…Dru was as amorous as she could be when she wasn't drooling over Angel, or fucking him right under your nose. But she never _loved _you, you whelp.  I'm it, babe.  Are you seriously prepared to destroy Buffy any more than you already have?  Ready to gut me?"

The words stung with more malice than any wound she could inflict.  It was devastation at its finest.  A wealth of pain beleaguered oversensitive bearings, and he felt himself expel a pitiful whimper at the blatant truth.  Her eyes beheld conquering success, and she took a sip of his pain and found it exquisite.

"There, there," she continued after a minute.  "It doesn't have to be that way.  It really doesn't.  We could have it all.  Think about it.  Every fucking joy in the world—nothing to hold us back.  All the tasty people out there.  Happy meals, remember?  A nice—"

"Nothin' to hold me back?" William gasped.  "Luv, you really are thick.  You stupid bint.  Even 'f I wanted to, even 'f I was slightly tempted, there is that annoyin' soul of mine.  You can't cheat me out of—"

"Right.  You're not Angel.  Whatev."  Porphyria batted her eyes and crossed her arms behind her back.  "But we could ask the demon _here…_real nice.  I'm sure he'd take care of your little…problem right away."    

"To get the old Spike in action?"  He couldn't help it.  He laughed.  He laughed a cold, hard chuckle.  "I already told you once, you aren't her.  Neither myself or my demon side would—"

"Yeah.  I heard you the first time."  She rolled her eyes, evidently disinterested.  "And, I gotta tell yah, what a crock of bull.  It was Spike that kept reminding me that I was a part of the darkness.  To try on his world and see how good it feels.  I did and I must say: baby, it feels like coming home after a long trip.  Fucking good.  You can think and say what you want; we all know the truth.  You wanted me here, and here I am."

William shook his head and drew an arm back, unexpectedly sending her to the ground with a blunt, powerful blow.  "I loved the good in her," he spat.  "Me.  The whole me.  The demon an' the man.  That was what I fell in love with.  _Buffy.  _Try as you might, you're not 'er, an' you never can be.  You're jus' another bloody bot, but not 'alf as interestin'."  

Something red flashed across her eyes, and he knew understood that he had finally hit a mark.  A deep, personal mark.  Something that went beyond surface insults and remarks she could blow off with ease.  It was something that hurt, and it felt terrific.  

Victory at long last.

The platinum vampire understood that he had to act while the ball was in his court.  Her recovery would be speedy and painful in the reimbursement.  Acting quickly, he slammed her to the ground again, then ran like hell.

A spider-web highway of mazelike tunnels led him deep into the cave, further than he had ever been, had ever dared to venture.  And she was hot on his heels, roaring in fury.  Vamping before the lunge.

There was a flash of red, and he went down.

*~*~*

It had been years in the implanted figments of her artificial memory since she last saw the glow of Los Angeles at night.  However, the sensation was lost on her.  There was no time for sightseeing.  Xander had caught Giles on his cell phone when they were halfway to their destination, reporting that Willow had called back and was awaiting their arrival.  From there it was a matter of reaching Angel's place of business and preparing everything for the curse.

There were people she didn't know.  Names to apply to faces and Cordelia to become reacquainted with.  She looked nothing like Dawn remembered, but there was no doubt that she was Cordelia.  Cordy.  She met Conner, though the introduction was brief.  Their respective references surpassed 'Angel's ex-girlfriend's little sister' and 'Buffy's ex-boyfriend's miracle child.'  They didn't have much to say.

Fred and Gunn seemed nice, but didn't say much to her.  It was more of a mutual nod, a friendly greeting, then discussion for the big kids.

"I have to go over this again," Cordelia said as Willow and Giles prepared to retry the spell.  "Buffy's a vampire.  A seriously desouled 'I'm out for blood' vampire.  And she's…"

"We told you as much when we got back," Angel said softly.

"I know, I know.  The thought is just creepy.  I can't picture her like that."  Emphatically, her eyes widened.  "But definitely not as disturbing as the entire 'she's been sleeping with Spike' thing.  I can't imagine.  I don't _want _to imagine."    

"If we could skip four years ahead, that'd be super," the Witch said dryly.  "As I tried to explain, Spike left town, got a soul, and has been working with Giles ever since.  Buffy got vamped, got souled, got unsouled, got souled again, and was trying to get permanently souled when Will gave her true happiness."

Conner snickered and glanced to Dawn.  "Say that five times fast."  His only answer was a menacing glare.  

"That's another thing I don't get.  Buffy was never happy, at least to my memory.  How'd he manage that?" Cordelia asked.

"Told her he loved her," Giles replied softly.  "Poor Will."  

"Guys…if it's not too much…the curse, please."  Willow nodded to the Watcher.  "I'm not sure how well this is going to work.  I can't…I can't feel her.  At all."

"Well, she is on the other side of the planet," Gunn offered unhelpfully.  "Call me crazy, but that might have something to do with it."

The Witch's eyes narrowed and she shook her head.  "I felt everyone when I was in England four years ago.  Distance has nothing to do with it.  It's all about the connection.  Wherever she and Spike are now, they're at a place where I can't feel them."

Fred bit her lip.  "What does that mean?" she asked, though no one needed a drawn out conclusion.

"It means that the curse might not work.  If I can't reach them, magic might not be able to, either."  Willow met Giles's gaze with communal concern.  Neither wanted to say what they were thinking.  "But we gotta try."

There was a brief, foreboding silence.  The Watcher nodded in comprehension.  "Very well then.  Let's try and hope for the best."  Without waiting for a response, he turned his attention to the indicated text and began to read.  _"Quod perditum est, invenietur."_

The Witch drew in a breath and began.  "Not dead...nor not of the living. Spirits of the interregnum, I call."  Something fluttered in the air above her, fleeting and light, but something nonetheless.  Dawn's eyes widened in immediate premonition.  That wasn't right.  

If anyone else noticed, they did not mention it.  "Gods, bind her. Cast her heart from the evil realm.  Return.  I call—"

It happened in a blur—too quick to stop, too random to anticipate.  Willow gasped loudly, her hands clutching at the desk to hold herself in place with futile effort.  She was forced violently to the other side of the room by a pair of unseen hands; smashed into the wall and collapsed wantonly to the ground. 

Several people shouted her name in alarm, but they were far away.  Too far to speak to.  She panted again and saw.  Saw William running through a series of dark tunnels.  Saw the creature behind him.  The creature she had only seen twice. The creature carrying her best friend's face.  The foundation they relied on quaked in affect, but the curse was useless.  Barren to the demon's home.  

They were castrated from civilization.   

"Too late!" she cried, vaguely aware that Angel was pulling her to her feet.  "It's too late.  The demon…wherever they are, has some sort of protection spell around the…place.  Something that blocks curses from, well, me.  And others."  Willow looked dangerously to the Watcher, stumbling out of the vampire's reach.  "He's in trouble, Giles," she said.  "Big trouble.  I'm afraid she's…she might kill him."

*~*~*

It was very dark.

That was all he knew.  All he felt.  Darkness.  A big swell of nothing that engulfed him thoroughly.  Every imaginable nerve in his body seared with endless pain.  He sat up, fatigued.  When he had fallen asleep, he did not know.  It took several seconds to realize the particulars of his surroundings.  The foundation he relied on was a wedge of cold stone.  A vast nothing lay beyond the gloom.

He remembered then, and blinked with extended assessment.  There was nothing to see.  A frighteningly literal nothing:  blackness that stretched forever.  As if the stars themselves had winked out of existence.   

Though he couldn't possibly know that.

Then there was Porphyria.  Porphyria.  Where was she?  Waiting, undoubtedly.  Lurking.  William strained his eyes and ears, desperate for some sign to reassure himself that he was alone.

He was still in existence.  She had had the chance to dust him and ignored it.

Why?

Then she was there.  Not there one minute and right beside him the next.  William balked and started to scramble to his feet, but the aches searing up his legs rendered him coldly to the ground.  There was no escape.  

Slowly, she reached for his shoulder.  The touch was soft and reassuring, and without saying a word, he warmed up to her immediately.  Relief coursed through every pained nerve.  With desperation, he turned and grasped her shoulders.  It was Buffy.  The Buffy he knew and adored.  He wanted nothing more than to see her.  The darkest part of his soul told him it would be the last time.

Her eyes were heavy and burdened.  Never before had he seen her so stressed.  So remorseful.  So…

William drew in a breath.  "Am I dreaming?"

The Slayer smiled movingly and placed a finger to his lips.  "Shhh.  Don't talk." Her eyes were strained and concerned, sad and terrified.  However, that didn't stop her from leaning in and claiming his mouth with ardent fervor.  It was swift and unpredictable, and frankly rendered all chance of comprehensible thought to complete nonexistence.  She pulled away shortly.  The light of lasting penance shown brightly in her eyes.  "I can't do this.  I just can't.  William...you have to..." She waited until she was sure he understood.  "You know what you have to do."

A plea for ignorance.  He didn't want the weight of such responsibility.  The thought made him sick.  "What is it, luv?  What do I hafta do?"

Buffy smiled at him, and his heart fell to pieces.  "You know.  And you know that you must do it before I lose control.  It's slipping, Will.  You have to do it now."

Desperately, he shook his head, trying to break away.  "No.  I promised you.  I'm not goin' back on that now.  I told—"

"William…"

"Go away.  Get outta 'ere now.  Go."

But she wasn't going anywhere.  Instead, she moved closer.  He felt her against him but the sensation was dimming.  Their time was limited, and she faded further and further out of reach.  "William, I must tell you.  No matter what happens…you got to know…I do…" Buffy looked to the ground and took a deep breath.  "I don't believe you know how much I love you.  I don't know half the time.  You need to.  You need to know before you do it."

It nearly broke him, but he stood his ground.  "Stop.  Don'—"

"It's almost over," she whispered.  "When it comes down to it, you know what you're going to have to do.  And when it's over, you _mustn't _doubt yourself.  No matter what happens."

"Buff—"

"Do it."  The Slayer glanced up, features overwhelming with anxiety.  "Okay, Will.  This is it.  She's coming.  You got to get up.  Get up now.  Get up!"

William's eyes flew open and the apparition vanished.  

Porphyria was nearing.

Cold realization swept through every aching muscle.  With a muffled grunt, he sat up, too weary to continue running.  He was where he had fallen; the scent of his own blood tackled somnolent senses.  It must have only been seconds.  

"It's time to stop, sweetheart," the Buffy-creature drawled.  There was eerie and oddly peaceful serenity about her features.  A similar knowledge that this was it.  That the battle was nearing its end.  Her eyes were blank yet fiery at the same time—every visage of her former self dissolved forever.  Her hands were bare; the handle of a long blade exposed from its hiding place in her leggings.  When she noticed that he saw, she smiled ominously and drew it into view.  "Great thing about demons," she said.  "Lots of warriors come by and leave nice surprises."

As if to accentuate her point, William's foot collided with something that rattled with wooden construction as he paced stealthily backward.  He didn't even glance to it; whatever it was would do.  Without breaking their locked gazes, he leaned forward and enclosed his fist around the object at his disposal.  A spear.  A wooden spear.  Something deep fell in his stomach.  He wondered if it was a part of the demon's twisted sense of humor.

Porphyria's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.  "Intimidating," she observed.  "Are you actually gonna use it?"

A muscle in his face ticked.  "Try me, bitch."

She pretended to consider, shrugged, and grinned.  "Oh, all right.  But only because you asked nicely."

That was it.  The all and final it.  There was no going back.  William tightened his grip on the spear, wearing sawdust off the dilapidated surface.  He charged bluntly and was answered with a kick to the chin.  Porphyria remained unmoved though highly amused, her eyes doing all the talking needed to interpret her victorious chuckle.

It had grown frighteningly simplistic to consider her the enemy.   

The crazed vampire roared, flashing her incisors, and ran for him.  William took a blind swing at her midsection that lacked effort.  Porphyria dropped to the ground and rolled to a safe proximity, whirling to her feet in a second and lunging her blade-arm at his head.  The teeth caught a chunk of shoulder, erasing old forgotten battle scars that were to remain embedded in his skin forever in a swipe of red.  He felt nothing—his body absorbed pain as fuel.  There was no other place for it now.  He turned wildly, knocking the blade from her grasp as he pivoted the other end and sliced a bloody streak down the image of his lover's face.  He screamed and she screamed, biting his inner cheek to keep tears away.

Porphyria came at him again, black blood dribbling down her chin.  She caught him off guard, allowing him one swift smack across the face, buying time to reclaim her dagger.  William charged again, spear raised, target aimed.  The Buffy-creature was ready.  In a hasty movement, she forced the knife upon her opponent's defense, drawing in brute strength and reveling in the victorious sound of wood popping before breaking altogether.  Two pieces of cypress fell away, and he was vulnerable.  

She seized the opportunity and lashed the blade at the first skin she saw: the cut at his shirt, blackened with the impression of a cross that mirrored her own.  The other vampire fell back, hand immediately seeking the dampness at his midsection.  At once, he felt nauseous—prime to fall over and simply concede.  But that wasn't an option anymore, and he understood.   The realization from which he could not turn back.  His eyes fell on one of the stray ends of the broken spear, and he reached for it, empowered by conviction. 

It was time.

In a flash, he faced Porphyria, who frowned to see him still pliable.  She began to advance once more until catching sight of the weapon ready in his hand.  Tears streamed down William's face, and he knew he had to do this before he backed out.  A wave of dizziness struck; the pain in his gut was becoming unbearable.  With a face distorted in agony, he managed to choke, "Buffy..."

She looked at him strangely as the name was mentioned, eyes clearing as a familiar face came into view.  It was a trick played by fatigue and weariness, he had no doubt.  For a split second, the countenance of humanity seemed to bear resemblance in the depths beyond reason.  

Then the moment was over, and Porphyria was back.

It was now or never.  If only someone else were here to make the decision.

With lasting thrall, William lunged the elongated stake forward.  A gasp sounded through the air as she fell, bone and blood gushing a river over his hand.  She rested forward, the point millimeters from her heart, and she had passed out before he could see her eyes.

The platinum vampire released a heavy breath and withdrew the stake from her chest carefully.  Bubbles of blackness oozed from the opening, but he could not bear to look at it.  Shaking his head, he positioned his weapon above her heart and held.

"All right, then!" he shouted, voice echoing through endless tunnels.  "To the bloody death.  She's as good as dead.  One second more, an'—"

The demon was there without further prompt, showering him in the green glow of his eyes.   How long he had been watching, William didn't know or care.  All he understood was that it was over, and he had to be granted this final leave.

"The Slayer is not yet dead."

A painful, humorless chuckle rumbled through his body.  "Tha's where you're wrong.  She's as dead as a doornail.  Several times over."  He strained forward.  "'S over then.  'F I stake 'er, she's dead.  To the death.  I came 'ere to save 'er.  You'll give me what I want."

"You were informed," the demon retorted, "that the creature must desire a soul before one is granted."

A void of desperation engulfed him.  Desperation, strained fatigue, and more fury than he ever imagined.  "I did what you wanted!" the vampire roared.  "I did everythin' you wanted!  Please…" He hoisted her into his arms.  "Jus' give her back to me."

The sprite was unyielding in its decision, and loss of hope like he had never felt flushed through his system. "Only one of you entered with a soul," came the retort.  "Only one may leave with one."

William blinked, grip tightening on the lifeless being in his arms.  "Do you hold your word to that?"

"We are unmoved in our conclusion."

Then he had to be, too.  In those few, precious seconds before he lost control on rational thought, it finally occurred to him what love was.  The basic.  The fundamental stages.  He knew.  He was consumed and driven to the pivotal edge of his stamina, body threatening to collapse with each beat.  Love was standing at the beginning and knowing it was the end.  Love was endurance and faith.  Love was overcoming all obstacles, no matter how great.  Love was seeing beyond prejudices.  Love was realization of fault, and how right it could feel to be wrong just for a second.  But most of all, love was knowing when to say goodbye.

But not to her.  To himself.

"Fine," the platinum vampire said.  "Take mine, then.  Take mine, an' give her's back.  'F tha's the way it is, take the sodding thing back.  Take it an' _give 'er back to me!"_

There was a stunned pause, and he felt a rush of hope.  The demon—despite appearances—had not seen the barter coming.  He was contracted, now.  There was nothing to do but comply.

"You understand," he said, "if your quest is granted, our business is done."

"Yeah.  Whatever.  She needs it more than I do."  William ducked his head before he could start crying again.  Once more, the words came to him, pleading this time.  "Please…please give 'er back to me."

There was no answer.  Nothing beyond a growl of consensual agreement.  He felt the touch on his scarred chest and had doubled over before the creature in his arms could scream her release.

The world tumbled around him.  All went black.


	45. Big Bang

Author's Note:  If the beginning of this chapter sounds familiar, I'd like to direct your attention to the preamble…some 500 pages back.  Same thing—rewritten for the sake of affect.  And laziness.  Heh.

(Not the whole thing, though.  I'm not THAT lazy…well, okay I am…but not where BtVS is concerned)

*~*~*

**Chapter Forty-Four**

He felt it.

An ache streaked across his back, and he felt it.  A pounding echoed in his ears, and he felt it.  Water dripped against his skin, and he felt it.  

It felt so good to _feel._

What an amazing sensation.  Nearly four years dwelling in the heart of human candor rendered all vibrations new and unexplored: lodged somewhere within his conscious as the oddest sense of déjà vu.  Something that existed within the depths of logic.  Cold, dark, and unidentified.  Feelings he never expected to again experience enveloped him with chilling possession, tightening every muscle in his body, stretching his brain until he thought it would ooze from his ears—forcing his eyes to escape behind their sockets as a silent scream fought its way to freedom.  Agony?  Perhaps a bit.  But what was done was done.

Disconcertion was in order.  After all, having a soul ripped away was _supposed_ to do that.All at once, he felt limber and energetic, though he remained stationary on the ground.  His lungs filled with air that he didn't need, veins coursing with life—as though reflecting the best feed of a century.  

It was odd to feel pain and ecstasy at the same time.  

It was odd for pain to fade in the leeway of pleasure.

The soul had made him ache.  It had made him alive.  It was gone.

Good things never last, of course.  Vampires in all senses were forbidden to feel anything.  Consequences weigh heavily when they breech that unspoken barrier placed by nature between themselves and mortal man.  A few minutes were granted before the first wave struck, attacking his gut with such force that it would have killed him were he not already dead.  The next did not wait, nor was it any simpler to endure.  Eyes flashed with the continuous silent recitation of _Why? Why? Why?  Do I dare? _His throat tightened with a soundless scream, a hand struggling to find his eyes, to bat the images away.  

And just like that, they left him.  Every lasting image.  What a wondrous sensation.

It was gone.  After feeling the self-inflicted torment Angel put himself through in first person, a strange impression of both loss and rebirth coursed through him in the greatest relief.  All strains of self-loathing for something he could not change had left him.  The promise was no longer empty.  When he woke that first morn, so many years ago, he had never seen himself in this position.  The regain of something he never coveted; the will to look at the world through rose colored glasses, and feel nothing but indifference.

He understood pain.  He had tasted his share time and time again, enjoying it often.  The thrill of the hunt, of the kill, of a torture session involving railroad spikes.  The taste of good blood.  Motives came in all shapes and sizes, however ineffectual.  Because he was bored.  Because he was irritated.  Because it was _fun._

All familiar pangs were gone.  All except one.

Because of _her._  All because of her.  She who had led him here.  She who had fueled his holy crusade.  She who had given him life after taking it so many times.  She who supplied his lungs with such blissfully unnecessary oxygen.  Over and over again she had gone to him to die, and yet he was the one who fell cold.  Spike had placed himself in the midst of the deadliest stare imaginable all for the feel of her skin under his.  He had endured bitterness that came in the guise of pointed hate to cover her self-resentment.  For her, he allowed himself to take the fall.  Oh and how that stung!  To be hurt time after time for her own misgivings.

How it felt to hurt _her…_

But so much had changed.  When he last awoke after earning his reward, he had not a friend in the world.  An incredibly hurt Slayer resided on the other side of the planet, unknowing of his redemption.  An acquaintance waited in London to offer him an unlikely hand in amity.  A Witch was suffering the consequences for her descent into madness.  An evil was brewing, waiting for the signal.  Waiting for the opportunity to change everything forever.

Spike had never known remorse or guilt.  As a bloodsucking fiend, he had taken life after life, drank from countless suppliers, and did so with a song in his heart.  And that was the way it was—the way he accepted it.  The way all vampires accepted it.  A soulless demon was not supposed to bear a conscience.  No, no, that would get in the way.  Chip or no chip, nothing was believed to affect his Jiminy Cricket.  And truthfully, nothing had for a hundred years.  

She had given him _feeling.  _Feeling!  He was Spike, the Big Bad, the baddest of the bad.  No woman, no _human _woman was supposed to make him _feel.  _But the demon could not lie.  The demon knew love and loved the Slayer.  The enemy.  No matter how many times she brushed him off, he came back.  No matter how she attempted to push him away, how she hurt him without a care, he always returned whenever she was in the slightest danger.  Whenever she raised her voice in his direction.  When he saw what he had nearly done to her, he would have gladly shoved a stake through his heart, if only to save her from himself.

He had hurt her.  Hurt the woman he loved.

But that was over now.  An inconsistency he would have to grow accustomed to.  Something unforeseeable from every angle but one.  It was all very vexing.

Spike had been perverse.  He loved pain, fed off it.  Every punch seemed to satisfy more than hurt.  Or so things _had_ before he knew his love for her.  Then it was thrust and parry; Buffy fought enough for both of them.  The confession of love buried within his throat only fueled her rage.  He was a demon, after all, and it was conventional knowledge that demons could not love.

But he had.  Spike had loved with more fervor than many humans ever experience.  Even before the dream changed his unlife, a softness covered by layers of rough exterior shaped him to care for Drusilla.  He knew that she had never wholly loved him—never like he had her.  A century has passed with her by his side, and he would have laid his life down for her if it were asked of him. 

At that, Porphyria's words concerning his maker came flying back.  A true punch in the gut—viable and constructed with the intention of ruin.  A lingering spark of hatred blooming for the demon that had stolen the Slayer's body flared with recognition.  Spike shook his head, eyes sealed shut.  He did not want to look around. Did not want to _feel _anything.  Four years of feeling had been more than enough.  

The man burning inside whispered it was fair trade for all the suffering she had endured since his return. 

God, how things had changed.

It was then the realization struck.  Blunt and forceful—strong enough to drive a weaker man to tears.  Buffy loved him.  _Loved him.  _She had told him so with the utmost sincerity.  Over and over again, tears pouring down those glorious cheeks, dampened hair clinging to her forehead.  She told him before she knew.  She, Buffy Summers, the Slayer, loved Spike.  A feeling indiscernible to any breed swept through him, applying the tender touch to his aching conscience.  The conscience was still there.  He doubted it would ever leave.

It was final, then.  Spike was back.  The same who had saved her.  Saved her so many times from vampires, demons, herself, in his dreams.

In the end, it was she who tried to save himfrom the monster within.

The mental civil war was armed and ready to last a decade, but he could not allow himself to sulk forever in the darkness.  Aside his newly defined conclusive state, Spike blinked wearily before finally forcing his eyes open and sitting up with a blessed flex of muscle.  He was only vaguely aware that someone was lying across his lap.  There was nothing but the cold—the cold and a strange immunity to it all.

Then the reality of his situation swept inward, engulfing him in a tidal wave of remembrance.  Drawing in a sharp breath, his hand shot out experimentally and collided with the satin of soft skin.  No movement.  Spike gave way to patience—it was not something he was commonly known for—and turned her onto her back.  The visage he beheld was enough to chill the darkest heart.  Her skin was cold, the scar stretching her cheek the picture of blood against ivory.

She wasn't moving, and there was no way to estimate how well she would be when she awoke.

Swallowing, Spike lifted her in his arms, cradling her head before it fell back.  He pursed his lips, running a finger against the cut in her face.  It burned with pain that he could not feel.  The stake wound at her chest was still moist—blackened against a light, tattered blouse.

He couldn't allow himself to stop and think.  In the next instant, he was on his feet, Buffy in his arms.  Keened eyes prowled his surroundings for sign of life to little avail.  His insides flooded with contempt, and a growl rumbled through his body.  "'Ey!" he called through the vacant grotto, nothing but the drowning echoes of his own voice bothering to answer.  "You din't play the trade fair, stupid git!  You were s'posed to give 'er back!  'Ey?  Answer me!"

Angry cries died down endless tunnels.  There was no rejoinder.

Desperately, Spike looked back to Buffy.  A lump formed in his throat, and he again set her down, propping her against a slab of rock.  In new light, he could see the paintings that offset inhumanly pale skin. 

For long minutes, all he could do was stare.  The face of a continuous plight—the dozing angel looking back.  Floods of warmth contracted the shivers wracking his body.  It felt as though a lifetime had passed since he last saw her face.  Since he had the opportunity to simply watch her.  New revelations soared with blessed awakening.  

He wanted to talk to her.  Wanted to hold her.  Wanted to do all the things previously denied.  Most of all, he needed to hear her say it.  Say it to _him, _to him and mean it.  After everything, he didn't believe he needed anything with more potency.  

Spike expelled a breath and reached forward, feeling her face.  "Buffy?"

No answer.

"Slayer?"

No answer.

His next thought was impulsive and brash, and by the time he rethought his actions, his fist had already compacted neatly with her face.  Though the force was minimal, it still sent her defenseless body to the ground.  Still, no answer.  He frowned and leaned forward, pulling her to him tightly.  He had to fight the urge to bury his face in her hair.  To simply lose himself here, forget the outside world and lie beside her until the end of time.

Of course, that would get very tedious.  Spike thoroughly abhorred being jaded.  That, and if he didn't get something to eat soon, he was sure to wither away.    

With another sigh, he rose to his feet, pulling Buffy into his arms once more.  The duster lay abandoned on the ground.  With a tight grin, he slid it over his shoulders, balancing the precious cargo with talent many would envy.  It was a practice he had perfected when caring for Drusilla.

Spike's mind was racing, tripping over in itself in an effort to beat other components to the better ideas.  Directly following his own restoration, he had retreated respectively to London where he presumed to live out the end of civilization alone.  

That brought a single name to mind.  Giles.  Giles would know what to do.

The platinum vampire paused.  How was he supposed to explain this to his benefactor?  To the man who had been a reliable colleague for nearly half a decade?  Ripper was William's friend; he had never been a supporter of the demon inside.  A thousand plus encounters had been enough to prove that much.  

_Spike…you're not welcome here…_ _We are not your friends. We are not your way to Buffy. There is no way to Buffy._

Things were different.  Everything was different.  Giles knew him as the man and the demon who sacrificed everything in the namesake of salvation.  Coldness flushed his insides, but there was not time to think about that.  He had to consider what was in the Slayer's best interest, and that was definitely a visit to her Watcher.

After that, there very well could be miles to go.

It was dark outside the cave.  He had no idea how much time had passed since first entering; it felt he had just awoken after sleeping a thousand years.  By the rumbling in his stomach, he concluded it had been at least a couple days.  He wondered absently if the impact of Giles's drug was responsible for Buffy's prolonged rest.  After all, she had awoken a good day before she was due to by the demon's decree.  

God, he hoped so.

Spike stopped once more before stepping into the night.  "'F she doesn' wake up," he told the silent demon.  "I'll be back.  You can count on that.  An' so help me, I'll rip your bloody head off."

There was no reply.  The threat was empty, of course.  He didn't suspect he would last long against the sprite lone on a battlefield; but he would do it.  Suicide or not, he would do it.

The first steps outside were cold and unusual, as though he occupied a stranger's body.  Spike drew the fresh night air into his useless lungs, clutching the Slayer close to his body, against the leather of the coat he had earned so long ago.  The coat she would battle him for if—when—she awoke.  

_If she doesn' see it's me—really me—and stake me first._

That was ridiculous.  She loved him.  Buffy loved him.  She had told him so.

She had started loving him.  It was William she loved by last declaration.  

Spike shook his head in aggravation.  _Bloody rotten time to go through these sodding dramatics, _he thought.  _Must be some lingerin' nancy-boy concern.  Teaches me to become a poofter._

The library.  A place of previous sanctuary.  His home.  At that minute, he couldn't think of a place further from himself, but it was the nearest haven.  It was also the most logical location to establish an understanding with Giles.  If he knew the Watcher, he had likely boarded a plane to England not two minutes after they last spoke.

Dread began spooling in his stomach.  Despite recent developments, he did not want to lose Ripper's support.  There was no way to gauge his reaction, though perceptivity came with knowledge.  He had spent four years proving that he was not the impassive demon everyone had believed him to be.  There was empathy and support.  There was friendship.  

There was a long trip ahead.    

At that moment, he concluded it didn't matter what Giles thought.  Or what Buffy's opinion of him was—whether or not she loved him.

_She does, o'course.  She said so._

But it didn't matter.  Nothing did.  He had to get to London.  To that library run by wankers that, for whatever reason, thought he suited him perfectly.  A library.  Spike grinned tightly to himself in somber reflection.  Words and excuses began forming effortlessly in his head; things he could tell the administration regarding his future in that occupation.  Professor Hawkins was aware of his resignation, and he thanked the Powers That Be that he had forgotten to call and reinstate himself prior to bringing Buffy to Africa.

Thinking was too tiresome, especially after the past few days.  There was only one objective to concern himself with.  London.  

Beyond that, there were questions only time could answer. 

Bloody impatience.

*~*~*

There was nothing like cutting it fine.

Spike threw the door open just as his back began to sizzle.  The keys were left dangling in the lock; it was suicide to go back and pull them inward.  It was early enough for the library to be closed to the public, and perhaps if he cared more, he would have given consideration to potential plunderers—more likely, demons—returning from an evening of partying.  But there was no thought beyond getting Buffy upstairs.  

When he saw he was not going to beat the sun, he had removed the duster and again laid it across her body.  Lingering tidbits of forethought battled through random spurns of ideas.  He forced himself to a stop before stepping directly through one of the sunbeams.

"BLOODY HELL!" he yelled irately, biting the inside of his cheek in thought.  The trip was one he had made a thousand times, but never while carrying another individual.  Spike paused; reviewing the footing, then took off in what was perhaps the most ineloquent voyage across the lobby since that initial day four years earlier.  He fell to his knees when the danger had passed, panting as though having completed a marathon.

"That old git really _was_ tryin' to dust me," he grumbled, though he knew it was not so.

Then he wasn't alone.  It was instant recognition.  The vampire whirled on his heels—rushing with hope that the Watcher was behind him though knowing in advance that such was not the case.  No.  It was the substitute curator, looking as disgruntled as ever.

Morning salutations were not needed.

"Fantastic," Spike murmured.  "They called you back, eh?"

Dr. Fell's eyes narrowed, observing him with an air of superiority.  The Cockney bit back a snarl; he hated being scrutinized.  There was no immediate reply: no need when one could afford time enough to patronize.  

"Your rather abrupt departure left my employers little option in the matter," was the reply—shaken as though attempting to bottle growing aggravation.  "Mr. Ripper, I do realize that you have more of a tie around here than I do, but I suspect even a man of your character can realize it is trifle rude to abandon a granted occupation without forward warning."

At that, Spike allowed the growl scratching at his throat to escape.  He hadn't time for this.  "Terribly sorry to inconvenience you, you bloody poof," he snapped.  "My lady got sick, see?  Really nasty sick.  I s'pose you can say in a fatal kinda way.  Had to go find 'er a cure.  Din't 'ave time to worry about the soddin' management.  Figure'd they'd know I left once they popped by an' noticed the not here-ness of me.  So sod off.  Gotta get 'er upstairs."

The look on the doctor's face did not change.  Unsympathetic and beyond annoyed.  Rolling his eyes, the platinum vampire pushed passed him, murmuring incoherencies under his figurative breath.  He got as far as the middle step before Fell spoke again.

"Do you presume that the administration is going to welcome you back with open arms?  You have left twice now without expressing the slightest desire to return to your position."  Pivoting elegantly, arms behind his back, the man faced him.  Eyes linked.  Spike had the sudden urge to tear his head off.  "They were going to have your things removed as of tomorrow."

His brows perked in feigned interest.  "Really?  Good for 'em.  Here's one for you…I don' give a bloody damn.  I told you before that the job 's yours once I'm done with the place."

"The job _is _mine, Mr. Ripper."

"Well tha's fan-fuckin'-tastic.  Works out for the best of us.  There is that little part where I don' care, but 'f you can ignore that while I go tend to some busi—"

"Perhaps you're not hearing me—"

"Yeah.  I'm hearin' you.  I'm no longer invited.  Back to the part where I don' care.  I'm usin' the room upstairs."

"Mister—"

"Honestly, mate.  Wha's up your wagon?  I got more important things to do.  Now, I'm goin' upstairs. You wanna stop me?  Well, can't say it won' gimme a headache, but I'll give you somethin' to scream about.  I am feelin' a bit peckish."  With that, he allowed his bumpies to emerge, a vampiric roar tearing at his throat.  "An' if you think I'm bad, wait till the bird wakes up."

He hoped against hope that was an empty promise.  If it was Porphyria who met his eyes, he was sure to lose every reserve…but not before allowing her first dibs at the doctor.

The look on Fell's face was priceless; torn between stunned and horrified.  When he could not find words, Spike grinned tightly to himself and nodded.  "Tha's what I thought.  Stay down there an' do your job.  I'll be outta your hair, or lack thereof, soon as possible.  Don' think I fancy stickin' 'round 'ere, do yeh?"  The smile tickling his lips broadened.  "Get over it.  I'm a vamp.  Big surprise.  Think I got this job because of my schoolin'?  You thick ponce.  Oh, an' if a bloke named Giles drops by, tell 'im to come on up."  

That was that.  He refused to wait for a reply.  There was much too much to worry himself with to pause and deal with ignorance at its best.  He pushed his chamber door open and hopped fervently to the bed.  His taste transformed to tenderness once convinced that the doctor wasn't going to follow him with another foray of inane inquiries.

There wasn't much he could do but study her face.  Her wonderful sleeping face.  Lost somewhere in a transitive dreamland.  He wondered where she was.  What she was feeling.  What random images drifted through an unknowing subconscious.  If he was there at all, comforting her in her time of need.    

If she would ever wake up.

Pacing was inevitably a necessity.  

Hours passed—he didn't know how many.  He occupied himself with anything he found accessible.  Downing glass after glass of blood to fill his stomach, trying to finish the book he started before returning to Sunnydale and finding himself intensely bored within the first two sentences.  Every other beat was another venturous glance at her face.  He didn't know how best to busy himself without worrying ad infinitum that she might be gone forever.  There was no way to tell.  No heartbeat to monitor.  No pulse to check.  Nothing but the lasting evidence of her physical being to suggest she would ever again open her eyes.

But that was ridiculous.  It was the drug—it had to be the drug.  Until then, he did what he could for her, periodically injecting her with shots of warm blood to keep her from hunger.  He spent a good hour debating how comfortable she looked against the pillows, rearranging her in different fashions with the clandestine hope that he would jar her harsh enough to bring her into consciousness.  No such luck.   

Night had fallen when he heard the rustling on the other side of the door.  Before he could answer the calling, Giles rushed in, relief sweeping waves of panic away from his face.  "Will!  Oh, thank God," he said.  "I barely allowed myself to hope when your replacement informed me you had returned."  He discarded his coat on a table beneath one of William's favored Monet paintings.  "Where is she?  Did it go well?  How—"

Spike was dumbstruck.  At once, he felt compelled to break for the door before the Watcher realized what had transpired during those last minutes.  But no.  He had only run from what he was once before.  No more.  Not after everything.  Brushing a hand through bleached strands, he stepped forward.  "She's sleepin'," he replied.  "Ripper…there's somethin' you oughta know.  See I—"

The look he received was enough to silence any man.  Giles's eyes squared on him suspiciously, comprehension flooding inward with bittersweet amnesty.  "You're Spike," he concluded.  There was no want of doubt.  

At that, the vampire had no retort.  He turned his gaze downward in the heat of interrogation.  His throat clogged with a million evident observations, but he swallowed in reaction, unable to do anything but nod.  Though to no certain degree, he could deny the shared sense of loss that compacted the void where kinship had once resided.  In an instant, it was gone.  Gone along with everything else.  

The Watcher's mouth formed a solemn line and he nodded tightly to himself.  Manifest regret clouded every weary strain on his face—as if he had lost his best friend in the world.  "I see then.  How did it happen?"

"The demon," Spike retorted.  "The demon 'ad me do the trials.  'Ad to do that 'cause Porphy din't exactly want a soul.  Not like I did…my first go 'round.  After it was all over, 'e said some of the same, an' it basically boils down to me 'avin' to trade mine for her's."  He looked up.  "But don' go all poncy on me, mate.  It wasn' nothin' heroic."

"I wasn't going to suggest that," Giles replied matter-of-factly, shaking his head in disbelief.  "This is simply too much.  You gave your soul up for her?"

"'Course."  He managed to look affronted at the suggestion he would have done anything else.  "Hell, you knew me well 'nuff to guess that.  Actually had to beg the bastard.  Said since only one 'f us came in with one that only one 'f us could leave with one."

"And you gave yours up," he repeated, dumbfounded.

"Like I had a choice."  Spike twitched uncomfortably.  "Can we get passed the sodding melodrama?  Yeh—had a soul, gave it up like any decent chap would for the girl 'e loves."  At the look he was issued, he sighed, glancing down once more.  "Look.  You don' 'ave to worry 'bout anythin', 'kay?  I know tha's not exactly reassuring comin' from me, but I won'—"

The answer he received was blunt and honest.  It surprised him.  "I know."  Giles met his eyes with understanding.  "I know there is nothing to worry about.  I…" He released a long breath.  "As much as it pains me to say this…I suppose there is nothing to do but trust you."  

The vampire blinked, balked, and stepped forward in confusion.  "Come again?"      

There was a long, collective silence.

"We are not friends," the Watcher continued a minute later.  "You know this as well as I do.  But you did something no one could have ever predicted, and I respect you for that."  He paused.  "I suppose it is safe to presume that you have decided against returning to the library."    

Spike couldn't help it.  He grinned.  "The chances of that bein'…"

"Pardon my delusions.  Understand that it has been a very long week."

"Got that right."

Giles glanced to Buffy and heaved a sigh.  "There is no ending with you, is there?  If it is not one extreme, it is the other."

He shrugged.  "Don' blame me, mate.  That poncy Will's the one who did it.  I was—"    

"I really don't feel like having this argument for the rest of my life," the old man retorted shortly.  "Mainly because, after this month, I'm sure I've worried away my last twenty years.  Though I suppose you will never reach the pivotal form of comprehension that the rest of us have.  It is going to take a while to fall out of old habits."

"An' back to hatin' my guts?"  Spike arched a brow.  "Sorry 'f that doesn' sound like my idea of a good ole time."

"After what we've been through," Giles replied incredulously, "that would be the last of my worries."  He emitted another breath and indicated the sleeping Slayer with a nod.  "Has there been no change?"

The vampire shook his head.  "No.  I don'…I'm thinkin' that stuff I gave 'er before we left might've kicked back in after we fought."

"You fought?"

"That was the trial.  I 'ad to kill 'er."  He could tell that the continuous references to himself in the first person were throwing the old man off.  Four years of experience had schooled him in a different direction.  "So I beat 'er.  Don' know how, exactly.  I beat 'er.  Held a stake over 'er heart an' demanded the demon to give 'er back to me.  An', well, you know the rest."

The Watcher pursed his lips.  "I'm sorry you had to…" 

"What?  Give it up?  Figure you would be.  Lost yourself your best—"

"No.  Not that.  I'm sorry you had to face her alone.  I can imagine how difficult that must have been."  Giles met his eyes once more with finality, support wavering away from his features, but not far.  There was a sudden need to be alone, and it was felt from all directions.  

The next was said out of duty rather than manifest concern.  "Don't make me regret entrusting you with her."

"Mate, as of the now I got your respect.  Tha's a bloody hard thing to come by if you're…well…me.  Don' aim to go do somethin' stupid."  Somberly, leaned in Buffy's direction, but didn't look.  "More reasons than one.  I'd never hurt her, Ripper.  I know I did, but I wouldn't again.  Not after…"

"Wi-Spike."  How odd it was to hear that reversed.  "If there was one thing your quest did, it was prove that very argument.  I like to consider myself a good judge of character, and I would hate for yours to…well, descend.  These past few years have proved there's no medium between you and your…well…" He sighed.  "It's hard to explain."

The vampire nodded.  "Yeh.  But I get what you're sayin'."

An uncomfortable moment of quiet reflection ticked by without climax.

"I'll be downstairs, fending off Dr. Fell.  He made quite a fuss when I announced who I was." Giles paused in fleeting amusement.  "Correspondingly, he mentioned something about you having the face of a demon.  Don't—"

Spike grinned.  "Well, 'e was bein' a bloody git an' not lettin' me up 'ere to take care of the Slayer.  Had to give 'im a bit of convincin' that I'm not the kinda bloke to mess with.  All in good fun, o'course.  Not like I could bite 'im 'f I wanted to."

"Let me know if she—"

"Like I wouldn't."  He snickered.  "Take it easy, Ripper.  Don' bore yourself to death down there.  Load of books that could put even Ole Likes to Read to sleep."

"Says he who read _Siddhartha_ six times in one week."

"'Ey!  That wasn' bloody me!  I'd never—"

But he wasn't listening.  Giles smiled poignantly and left without another word, closing the door quietly behind him.

That was perhaps one of the most bizarre, confounding conversations he had ever shared with another individual.  Spike sat in bemused silence for long minutes.  Whatever he had expected of the Watcher, it certainly wasn't support.  Sure, the old man had insinuated enough over the past few years after the initial adjustment stage wore itself to the last straw, but he never thought that words would be followed with actions.

_I will never want your opinion, _he had told him a lifetime ago.

Spike was far from admitting to himself, much less anyone else that losing Giles's pledge of good faith was the last thing he wanted to do.

Two more hours passed with everlasting tedium.  There wasn't much to occupy himself with, and while he debated rolling the telly in to attempt the impossible feat of following _Passions _after missing every episode of the last few years, he would not leave her side for the world.  

Despite his original claim, he had somehow allowed the Watcher to get him off his regularly scheduled programming.  Instead,  he smoked two packs of cigarettes, often using the ends of one to light up another.  It was disappointingly unaccommodating in settling his nerves.

The clock had just completed announcing the midnight hour when a moan drifted from the divan.  Spike was in the process of extinguishing another nicotine delight when it tickled his ears.  Every fiber of his being froze with impossible sanguinity, unsuccessfully attempting to school him to patience.  He was leaning over her the next instant, eyes too eager, praying he had not been deceived by false hope.  

The next instant put all reservations aside.  Buffy groaned loudly and stretched, hand unwittingly brushing across his face.  He couldn't help it; the reaction was immediate.  He caught her skin between his teeth, fortifying the grip with a return of his own as he tasted her with his tongue.

"Oh God," he murmured.  "Luv?  Buffy? God, come on.  Come on.  Jus' a lil more, pet.  Come on…"

A strangled beat of anticipation ticked by, nearly tearing him apart.  It was only when he was ready to growl his frustration that her eyes finally flew open.


	46. Wine and Roses

Author's Note:  This is technically the last chapter.  There will be a brief epilogue. 

I extend my thanks and appreciation to everyone who took the time to read.

*~*~*

Chapter Forty-Five 

She saw him.  They saw each other.  

She saw and _knew.  _There was no debate.  No inner war.  He didn't have to speak.  Didn't have to verify.  She saw him and knew.  Knew without question.

And she smiled.

"Spike."

At that moment, there were no words to illustrate the inexpressible feeling of transitory bliss that tackled every somnolent nerve in his worn body.  She recognized him.  What an extraordinary feeling.  Unable to stop himself, Spike reached forward, bringing her to him, kissing her ephemerally before pulling her into an embrace that would suffocate a lesser individual. 

Then he felt her tense as surges of realization stiffened her previously sate muscles.  His eyes fell shut in grim warning.  He knew it was too good to be true.  Exhaling a deep breath, he consigned tightly to himself and pulled away, meeting her gaze beat for beat.

The smile was gone.  She implored him without words, searching for something that was not there.  The power of silence was overwhelming at times.

Reality stepped in.  It was unwelcome here.

"Spike," she said again, rolling the name on her tongue, searching for a flavor.

With an indignant huff, he nodded, pulling back.  "Right," he agreed, running a hand through his hair.  "So sorry to disappoint, luv.  I—"

"What happened?"  There was no hint of accusation in her tone.  Pure and simple questioning.  Then her eyes widened as wave after wave of recollection swept inward, and she dissolved.  "Oh God," she gasped.  "I…are…I…"

"'S simple, really."  The platinum vampire pulled out of reach completely, maneuvering to his feet with deeper acknowledgment.  "Came down to—"      

"You had to do it, didn't you?"  Her eyes were flooding with tears, each piercing his heart with raw retribution.  "When…the demon…I remember him saying that I had to want it, too.  Oh my God, Will…"  

Every last nerve seared with irritation.  "Yeh.  So sad.  Sorry, luv.  I—"

"I can't believe you did that."

"Well, what was I gonna do?" he retorted.  "Couldn't let you very well remain that bloody broken bitch, could I?  You'd never forgive me."  He frowned.  "Assumin', of course, I found another way to bring you back."  When he finally met her eyes again and did not reflect the disgust he was so accustomed to, his harsh frontage crumpled without any further provocation.  "Had to do it, you see?  It was more important for you to 'ave one then me."  

Buffy bit her lip, looking away.  "I'm sorry," she whispered.  "I didn't mean for…that—"

"'Ey, no tears, luv.  We're both still undead an' everythin' with you's right as rain."  Spike studied her cautiously.  "Listen, I did what I said I'd do.  I went to the other side of the world an' fought to get you back.  Any ponce woulda done the same after they saw what you were goin' through."

"You gave up your soul for me."  There was nothing beyond astonishment in her voice.

He frowned.  The lack of hostility surged him with beats of unguided hope.  He couldn't presume to think everything was going to be all right, but she had yet to demand his absence. "Yeh.  I think we've covered that."

"I can't believe it."  Buffy shook her head.  "I'm so sorry."

"Now, tha's the second time you've said that."  When he was comfortable that she wasn't going to kick him out of the room, he drew in a breath and reclaimed his seat at the foot of the bed.  He was weary of anything further.  "What on earth do you got to be sorry for?"

She looked at him as though he had suddenly spawned another head.  "If I…you…you fought for yours.  And mine.  I…" Her eyes fixed loosely on the tear in his shirt.  There had not been time enough to change in his hurry, and the impression of Angel's cross was set nastily against blemished, broken skin.  "Oh God.  I did—"

Spike followed her easily but made no move to conceal the scar.  There was no need.  Instead, he indicated the mark stretching the length of her cheek.  "Got some of my own back," he observed.  "That an' then some."

An uncomfortable silence soared between them.

"I…I better go get Ripper," the platinum vampire decided, moving for the door without awaiting a reply.

"Wait."  She spoke with hurried angst, catching him before he could fully turn his back to her.  There they stood for several more minutes, simply looking at each other.  He hated such stillness—the temptation to pace was becoming too strong to ignore.  The look on her face betrayed the need for dialogue, but when she opened her mouth, she decided against her wording, shook her head, and asked, "Giles is here?"

Something deep fell within him.  "Yeh.  Got 'ere earlier, I think."  The platinum vampire nodded in concession and again started for the door.  "Listen, I'm sure the two of you 'ave a lot to talk 'bout.  Where to go from 'ere an' the like.  I'll go get 'im an' sod off, 'kay?  Gotta contact my bloody management an' get my last paycheck anyway."

Buffy frowned, her eyes filling with confusion.  "Spike!  Wait!  We…we should talk."

He sighed, his back to her.  "Wha's there to talk about?"

"What do you think?"

A familiar note struck harshly in her voice.  Snickering to himself, he turned again, eyes catching hers with sparks of remembrance.  "We've taken this path before, luv.  'S no use goin' over it all again.  I really don' fancy hearin' a bunch of bollocks that I already…well, 'ave memorized the tune to.  Things are different now.  I get that."

The Slayer was completed baffled.  "What?"

"All that soddin' bull 'bout—"

"Christ!  Here _again?"  _Something between humor and incredulity overwhelmed her features, and the next minute she had doubled over in empty hysterics.  "I can't believe this."

"Wha's the matter?"

"You!  You in any way, shape, or form!  Good God!"  She was laughing so hard she could have passed out if she had suffered the need to breathe.  "I finally got you to…and now…are you completely deaf or something?"

He frowned.  "'Ey.  Watch it."

"Remember that night in the graveyard?"  As if he could forget.  It was built in his memory palace as the one visit he would make most often.  "You remember what I told you, don't you?"

"'Course I do."  He had never felt such pain.  It all seemed so foolish now.  The girl loved him and all he could do was cry.  

That in consideration, something that was definitely_ not_ a tear had found its way into his eye.  He brushed it off with irritation.

"Well…doesn't it mean anything?"

"Why don' you tell me?" Spike challenged her with his gaze.  "Things are always easy to say when the cat's away, eh?"  That rhymed.  The man inside treacherously quipped: _You're a poet and you didn't even know it was so.  _A joke down at the coffee lounges where readings were held.  He shook the thought away, frowning at himself.  At the look hurt he received in reply, he softened uncontrollably and paced a few, cautious steps.  "I wouldn't hold you to that.  Not after…not after what 'appened.  Poncy William won' let me.  This time, 's the real thing.  The Big Bad, baby."

"Don't you think I know that?" she countered bitterly.

"Do you?"         

She looked affronted but he would not grant her leave.  "Of course I do!"

"Then tell me, luv."  Another step forward was hazarded and permitted.  "Tell me so I'll never forget.  Tell me right good.  Remind me of what I am."

"A pain in the ass?"

"A _monster!  _I'm an all out-for-blood monster.  I'm not the censored version, sweetheart.  Everythin' you see 'ere's all I am.  All I'm ever gonna be."  He paused.  "'Less you 'ave Red curse me or somethin' about—"

"Don't you remember _why _you…Will…whoever wouldn't…" With a sigh of aggravation, Buffy pulled hair away from her eyes.  "You wouldn't…let yourself be with me because it was…it was _you."_

"You're speakin' Greek, luv."       

The look he received was pointed and skeptical.  "Yes, and you understand Greek.  So stop playing dumb."

"'F you 'ave somethin' to say—"

"I WAS WRONG!"  It was practically a scream; captured within the boundaries of the walls.  "Okay?  I've said it to you a thousand times but I guess I have to say it to…you…until you get it.  I was so wrong that…well, you saw what it did to me."

The fire in his gaze softened.  "I saw," he conceded.  "Bloody right, I saw.  Kitten, you know what I want.  What I've wanted ever…ever since I can remember.  There's nothin' I want more.  An'…I won' hold you to it.  What you said.  I—"

"I love you, Spike."   

He stopped shortly, eyes falling shut.  Every contained burdened broke free with pleasurable liberation.  "You do," he repeated, voice searing with disbelief.  "You 'ave any bloody idea how long I waited to hear you say that?"

"I'm sorry," Buffy replied softly, crawling to the foot of the bed, reaching for him.  "I mean, I did tell you a thousand times since you got back, but—"

"You told the me who was easy to talk to," he counteracted.  "I never thought _I'd_ be so lucky."  A long breath hissed through his teeth.  "While we're on that…about the other…"

"I forgave you a long time ago for that."  The Slayer reached for him, imploring him to take her hand.  "Spike, I really don't want to have to go through all of this again.  I feel like…" She shook her head.  "I'm stuck in a continuous loop and there's no mummy hand to blame it on.  It's all you and me. Can't it all be over?  Please?  We've fought so much and I—"

He couldn't stand it anymore.  Something burning inside snapped and he seized her wrist, pulling her to the feet and pushing her roughly against the wall.  "I told you before we left," he said, voice angrier than he was.  "Told you 'f we were gonna do this, then 's gonna be a forever gig, right?  I love you too bloody much to go through all that bloody melodrama again.  I can't do it.  Get it?  Not again."

"I can't either," she agreed with a nod, eyes closing at his blunt force.  "God, Spike, tell you one thing and you won't let it go.  Tell you something else and you need everything save my right eye to believe I mean every word of it."

At that, he grinned, grip tightening on her arm in counterpoint.  "So you're ready, then?  You understand?  I'm the big fuckin' deal."

She nodded.  "I've known since you left.  After everything we've been through…God, don't you get that by now?"

"You ready for the full monster, baby?" Spike retorted, ignoring her inquiry. Then his bumpies emerged, and he tickled her mouth with his teeth.  "Ready to take all of me?"

Buffy exhaled deeply, running a hand over his chest.  "Did you mean what you said?" she asked softly.  

Their mouths were so close it was taking every restraint in his body to not seize her and make his long awaited claim.  It was too perfect a moment to rush.  "When?"

"When we were fighting…" She prodded him with her eyes.  "You…you said that you as…the demon…do you wish I was still…I mean, it'd be easier, right, if I—"

He growled at her.  "'F you think for one second that I would touch that bloody Porphyria bitch with anythin' sort of a good stakin', you got another thing comin'.  I mean, at firs' an' everythin'…but she was…" It made him quake with anger simply considering her words.  "You touched darkness, pet.  Somethin' darker than anythin' you were s'posed to feel.  I mean, you live 'ere, right.  In the darkness.  But not like that.  Never like that."

He didn't want to mention he was secretly impressed that one of her first kills was a Slayer.  

"What I felt…" she whispered, locking gazes.  "I felt…I know I've said this before, but…I can't believe you were able to turn your back on that.  Were able to search out the good.  I felt like I was lost…screaming and pounding and trying to break free but…caught." A hand drifted unthinkingly to his face, rubbing a worn cut across his cheekbone.  "You remember…remember the dream?"

At that, he grinned, leaning into her touch.  "Which one?"

"The one you had in the cave.  The brief one.  The one right before—"

The smile melted off his face.  As idealistic as sharing whims and reveries were written to be, he found the entire notion a tad unnerving.  He wondered vaguely if every great love of his unlife would be cursed with the power of clairvoyance.  "Wha?  How…what…?"

"Slayer thing," she replied, tapping her head with her free hand.  "I saw but I'm not sure that was me.  All I know is what I told you was true.  To not look back.  That everything was and would be all right.  I think a part of me was trying to tell you what it was going to come down to.  On some level, I must've known."

"Yeh.  Some level."  Spike simply stared her in extended bewilderment.  "God, pet."  He couldn't help it; his head dipped forward, resting against her brow, provoking her own demon to growl to life.  At that, he pulled back and observed her face.  Every aspect that demanded the thrill of the hunt.  The need for blood.  The raw empowerment it offered.  It was most beautiful thing he had ever had the privilege to see.  Had the dispensation to declare his own.  

Without any finale or hint at break, the internal soundtrack suddenly stopped.  Spike leered back and forward again, reaching for her face and bringing his lips to hers.  He kissed her brutally, hungrily, with passion that made her weak.  Caught in a moment, Buffy at first grasped his wrists, keeping his hands at her face, before conceding to encircle his neck.  The exploration of her mouth was delicate, as though he was still discovering her, still drinking her in. Every contradiction, similarity, metaphor, simile, divinity, inferno, _everything_, all summarized with a kiss.  

He lifted her effortlessly without taking his mouth off her.  Even now, his strength could deceive her, surprise her, take her by storm.  He had so much that she failed to credit for the counter of her own.  Buffy muffled a gasp and clutched him tighter.  The way he could exhibit elegance and animality simultaneously never ceased to amaze her.  So many unexplored levels of his own psyche left to resolve, more parts of him to find and love.

At the bed, he pulled away again, panting heavily.  "Why?" he demanded.  "Why do you love me, pet?  I could keep you 'ere all night 'f you wanted me to answer that, but I gotta know.  After everythin' you ever told me.  I jus' don' get it."

"Why?" she repeated, brows arching.

"Yeh.  Why."

The Slayer sighed, sitting up.  "God.  I think it was because I finally stopped hating myself.  After Willow went all evil, I realized how much I loved life.  Dawn and I talked about it.  We were…I can't even begin to describe everything we went through.  I saw that she could fight, hence the training-ness of her.  Things were all right for a while.  Then Will came home and everything was…it was just different.  You remember what you said…about you being my system and craving you like you crave blood?"

He grinned.  "Wasn' the best night of my unlife, but yet, I remember."

Buffy smiled expressively.  "I'm sorry."

"You were goin' through stuff, luv.  I wasn' exactly Joe Supportive.  All I wanted was a good shag."  There was a brief, considerate pause.  "No, nix that, I jus' wanted to think it was real.  The more we did it, the realer it became."  

Her eyes narrowed.  "You're telling me.  It scared me.  I began scaring myself.  Anyway, it started from there.  Then the pangs went deeper.  I realized one day it was because of you…and I hated that.  I've told you as much.  I didn't _want _to love you.  What was I if I loved…if I could…but…" She looked down and shook her head.  "Everything I thought was wrong.  I mean, most of.  Now that I've felt it myself, now more than ever, I know.  I understand."  With finality, she straightened, reaching for his face.  "In the end, all it boiled down to was that you…you gave me the fire.  The fire I needed.  Fire like I've never felt before.  I wasn't expecting it, and ran.  I acted badly.  Hell, _you _acted badly."  There was no denying that.  Despite however much fault was at her blame, no case was ever purely one-sided.  She did not let him linger on that thought long.  "And now I see you."

Pride swelled and he tried unsuccessfully not to let it show.  A grin spread across his lips.  "What is it you see, pet?"

The same humorous reflection was not in her eyes.  She could not laugh at this, and that pinpoint of seriousness coaxed him from the border of egotism to realize what she was about to say needed to be heard.  "I see a monster who was a man, who loved me enough to go to the end of the world and get a soul.  To accept an eternity of suffering.  To grasp penance."  Wearily, she leaned forward and planted a brief kiss on his lips.  "Then there's the man.  Will.  He loved me enough to give it up.  To risk everything.  And they're both you, Spike.  For every compound, you can't help but be both.  I love you so much it hurts."        

With a strangled cry of unadulterated bliss, he could no longer restrain himself.   The platinum vampire pressed forward, capturing her mouth, swallowing, devouring.  Needing to consume her whole.  His fervor was met with equal enthusiasm, challenged and conceded.  Easily, he slid from game face, wrapping his arms around her and coaxing her downward, testing the points of her incisors with his tongue.

Buffy moaned and coiled her arms around his neck.  He grinned against her lips and pulled back to study her face.  "Din't I always tell yeh that the fangs are particularly sensitive?"    

She domed a brow and chuckled, pushing up again.  "There's something I've been wanting to do," she said.  "I was going to after the entire soul business was behind us.  Angel told me…he always told me he wished he could.  But…"

The mention of the grand sire's name drew the look of heavenly content away without provocation.  "'F this was the Poof's idea, I don' want any part in it."

"Oh come on.  You guys were getting along so well before we left."

"Angel and _William _were gettin' along," Spike corrected.  "As fer me…can't stand 'im."

"Why?"  He looked at her incredulously, and she wavered.  "Okay, so it's a given.  But seriously, get over it.  What other reason do you have to hate Angel?  I mean, you can't hate him all that much.  You did save his life."

"God.  I did, din't I?  Let's not mention that ever again."

"Come on.  What's wrong with him?"

"Gee, lemme think."  The platinum vampire scowled simply letting his mind wander down that path.  "'E took away every bloody thing that ever mattered to me.  It was always about 'im.  'E's a bloody poof with stupid hair, an' prances around like the entire world's out to get 'im.  I've played the souled gig, luv, an' 's very wine an' roses, granted, but more of a—"

Buffy placed a finger to his lips.  "You hate him because it was always about him?"

"In his warped lil self-involved world, yeh.  It was.  'E got everythin'.  I 'ad Dru but she loved 'im."  He nodded indicatively to her.  "An' you.  'E was your first, sweetheart.  How the bloody hell am I supposed to compete with that?  Told Ripper once 'e's a sodding pedestal, an' no matter, that won' change.  I—"

"He was my first what?  Lay?  Sure."  A hurt frontage beset his features.  "You can't play that on me.  Neither of us were anywhere near virginal when we first…you know."  That was true enough.  "I loved Angel.  You loved Drusilla…don't hear me complaining—and can we say hello to the issues?  I know a part of you will always be with her, even if you don't…hell, even if you do love her.  But I don't want Angel.  I did.  I wanted him for a long time, but…" She leaned forward.  "It's you."

"Bloody no 'bout Dru.  Haven't I proved that by now?"  He shuddered.  "Tha's sweet, luv, but on some level, it'll always be 'im."  Spike shrugged in concession.  "An' I'm fine with that.  Really.  Jus' as long as—"

With a discontented growl, Buffy leaned forward and forcefully sank her fangs into the salty skin at his neck.  The act took him by such surprise that he had no reaction but to gasp his pleasure. Coos of delight shuddered through him and he leaned forward encouragingly, grasping the back of her head.  "God, pet.  I—"

She pulled back just as quickly; splatters of red dribbling down her chin.  "Mine," she whispered, lapping the wound with loving attention.  "Blood for blood.  Every last drop."

The words tumbled off his lips without thought.  "Yours.  All 'ere baby."  Then the moment was gone, and he froze.  The smile melted off his face and his eyes went wide.  "Luv!" he gasped, seizing her shoulders violently.  "Do you 'ave any conceivable idea 'f what you jus'—"

There was no need to question her motive.  Knowledge had buried itself within her eyes.  In gentle reply, she entwined her hands around his head and forcefully lowered his mouth to her throat.  Cold unneeded breaths of anticipation struck her skin, but he would do nothing until instructed.  Until permitted inside.

After this, there was no going back.  

Buffy clutched him reassuringly, nodding against his cheek in encouragement.  "Do it," she whispered.

That was it.  All the invitation he required.  All the want burning through long-neglected veins.  His demon roared to sudden life, biting into her soft flesh with more than tenderness.  Pure ecstasy touched every mistreated nerve.  Soothed every wanton pain.  Tied every loose end.  

Spike drank hungrily, seizing her shoulders to steady himself.  Black blood poured into his mouth, undeniably rich.  The best he had ever tasted.  With some difficulty, he managed to pull away, licking his lips in sweet retribution. "You're mine," he gasped.  "All of you.  Bloody mine.  No one else.  I won'—"

"Yours," she agreed softly, silencing his declaration with a small chuckle.  His brilliant love affair with words took rest for no one.

At last, he relaxed, arms tightened around her, nuzzling the wound at her neck.  They remained stationary for long minutes, comforted only in each other.  The promise of what lay ahead.  The end of dreary days.   

His embrace stiffened further, and in the heart of gratification, he rested his head at her shoulder.  "Not that I don' 'preciate the gesture, pet," he murmured.  "But why exactly would you go an' do somethin' like that?"

"To prove something to you."

"That you'll always keep surprisin' me?  No proof needed."

"That night.  After…after Willow restored me.  The night I killed Faith."  Cold aftermath stung her voice in notes of self-remorse, and he kissed her collarbone in an act of comfortless ease.  "You asked me if I knew how long forever was."

"So you decided—"

"Well, I'd been thinking about it for a while.  Angel told me once that it was highest plateau for vampirehood—"

"I'll say."  

"—and that you'd never had it with Dru before."

Spike solidified further.  "Yeh.  She never wanted…I guess that was clue one that it wasn' forever."  He resisted, then softened against her, resting peacefully.  "'S that who you learned to do it?  Peaches?"

"Well…he never really went into detail."  She grinned into platinum strands, raking nails through his hair.  "I mean, he couldn't so he…didn't.  I looked it up and—"

He barked a laugh, pulling back.  "You looked it up?"

At that, she frowned.  "Well, where else was I gonna learn?  Giles?  Rather doubtful.  And I didn't think you'd want me to…but now it's all…I love you, isn't that enough?"  
  


The phrase sent pure elation through his body.  He could listen to her say it forever.  "'S more than enough.  'S bloody perfect."

"I just wanted you to know…without doubt that I'm not going anywhere."

"Well, I coulda told you that."  Without warning, he pushed her back again, assaulting her with his mouth.  In perfect syncopation, their demons withdrew and they held each other.  Buffy's arms locked behind his head, tasting him to the fullest extreme.  Their bodies molded perfectly in concert, stretching with long-disregarded need.  A familiar swell tickled the bottom of his stomach, and his shirt fought its way off his shoulders.

At that, a lasting beat of restraint persuaded him to pause, reaching for her wrists and lowering them to the mattress, thumbs rubbing circles over the pressure points tantalizingly.  He glowered at her, pulling back and arching his scarred brow.  "What is it you want, luv?" he asked huskily, brushing her lips with his.

"Oh God…"

"Tell me.  Come on…" He tackled her throat with his mouth, persuading her to arch into his touch with another strangled whimper.  When she didn't reply, he stretched her arms above her head and held until she understood that he wanted them stationary.  He ran his hands down the expanse of her body in delayed exploration.  Then it was he that moaned.  So long this had been denied.  Too long.  The touch he had craved for years finally in his arms again.  No withdraw.  No hindrance.  Nothing to hold them back.

Not anymore.

"Spike!" she cried.  "Please…just…we deserve it, don't we?  We deserve it after all this time.  We—"

He sealed her pleas with a kiss, no longer willing himself to hold back.  After all, she was right.  So much time had passed, teasing themselves: flaunting what guilt, pride, or curses wouldn't let them touch.  Not anymore.  Never again. 

"Right," Spike gasped as her hand defiantly lowered, cupping him delicately, exploring him with idyllic liberation.  "Definitely, definitely deserve it."

On an emotional plane somewhere, they met each other with gratifying satisfaction.

Unneeded barriers plowed to the floor.  Trousers, various undergarments, anything that separated flesh from flesh.  There was no room for foreplay.  Enough had been shared over the past month.  If she didn't feel him inside her the next instant, she was sure she would break down.  

Luckily, that wasn't an obstacle.

The physical aspect of their relationship was still something largely uncultivated, despite how vastly explored.  From the first, they had fallen into perfect synchronization, though constantly battling each other for dominance.  And every time thereafter had been like the first all over again.  A new awareness, emotion, feeling surged through her in collaboration with the millions already encompassing her mind.  It wasn't merely sensation; it was sensationalism, if there was such a thing.  Exorcising so many empty years, both mentally and in the flesh.  She hoped never to stop discovering.   

In collusion with the roller coaster of her mind had put her through, Buffy felt she was falling, at the front of the ride and taking a turn down one of the large mounts.  Descending rapidly only to be swept before she crashed.  Then it wasn't just the hills; it was everything in between.  The loops, the curves, the slow and gentle climbs followed by the frightening plunges into what one could only assume was an extended abyss of new surprises.  

Words climbed in her throat, scratching, hissing, clawing, and beckoning for release.  Words and confessions.  The unspeakables.  Vibrations escalated and coursed, and then she heard it, as they reached their mutual points, straining in a near whisper.

"Never doubt it, pet," he gasped, shuddering as he stretched into his release.  His body cadenced against hers, spending in glorious climax and taking her right along with him.  She had never come so hard in her life.  "'F you 'aven't learned anythin', jus' remember—"

"You too," Buffy panted, vamping before she realized it.  Her teeth embedded naturally in his shoulder with blunt force.  A long moan pulsed through his lips, and he hardened instantly, taking her right along with him.

She felt hours could pass with continuous consummation.  So much looking without feeling, craving without quenching endless thirst.

No more.

Spike brought her to her second orgasm effortlessly, brushing a kiss over her forehead before finally disconnecting, rolling to his back.  Weighty breaths heaved free of his chest, and a hand dropped over his forehead, caressing his closed eyes.  The Slayer stretched luxuriously in the intensity of her afterglow, smiling to herself.

"Luv?"

"Yeah?"

"You're bloody brilliant."

Buffy turned over, reaching to touch his hand.  The connection was brief but needed.  For long minutes, all they could do was stare at each other.  A swarm of what had passed blazed between them.  Lost in the depths of one another's eyes.  Lost, warmed, and found.


	47. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

And so the question arose: where to go from here?

London provided time enough to gather the strength for an imminent return to Sunnydale.  Neither had any feasible grasp how long they would stay.  Giles related his joys in their decision, a blessing not as much needed as wanted.  

Unfortunately, after their shared revelations in William the Bloody's chamber, both completely forgot about the Watcher who lingered still in the lower levels of the library.  He had the bad luck of happening in for a progress report when both were acting rather immodestly licentious.

Things were edgy but comfortable between the Watcher and his former colleague.  They held their well wishes in a bittersweet exchange.  Despite his claim, Buffy could tell Giles was more than grieved to see his closest friend reduced to the very thing he had tried to escape.  Though they promised nothing on the surface would change, a sort of detached formality had consumed their relationship. 

Phone calls were made, arrangements and appointments set.  Willow and Spike talked in length.  She knew the minute it happened, she said.  She could feel it when he crawled to his redemption.  There was nothing but esteem held in his regard.  Xander related a sort of stunned though practical frontage.  He didn't take up much time and blamed it on long distance bills.  The short conversation with Spike exhibited nothing beyond a general 'thanks,' mumbled under his breath, and an immediate demand to be handed over to the Slayer.  Angel shared more of the same, both with his former love and his childe.  Bewilderment and lingering respect.  Their trade was brief and awkward.  

"'F anythin', luv," the platinum vampire grumbled, "we are _not _livin' in LA."

Buffy's conversation with Dawn was what consumed the better part of an hour.  Long, emotional apologies and pardons.  Astonished revelations.  A promise not to fight to again, however empty it was, and a shared assurance that no matter what, they would always be there for each other—regardless of distance or age.

Spike expressed an interest to hurl after their touchy feelies had concluded.  By natural inclination, the Slayer thwapped him on the back of the head.

The administration was in contact with him the day following his return to the library, offering a considerable raise if he would consider staying as curator.  They apologized for Dr. Fell's presumptions and indicated that Professor Hawkins, understanding but dejected by William's refusal to return, had blown a lot of air that was taken out of proportion.  He was on the verge of declining when Buffy snatched the phone from his grasp and barked into the receiver that he would think about it and call them back.  Before he could refute, she had hung up and flashed an insolent smile.

"'Ey!" he growled.  "Wha's the big idea, luv?"

"The idea is you said once that you'd be my willing slave, right?"  He opened his mouth to contest though there was nothing to do but not in agreement.  "Well, I told you I liked it here.  Come on, Spike.  It'll be fun."

"For nancy boy Ripper," he retorted indignantly.  "Not sure 'f you're graspin' the concept 'ere, luv."

"Spike.  Think of all the _money _you would make."

Periodically, it was as though his eyes were composed of nickels and dimes, and the only sound he heard was the continuous cha-ching of a cash register.  That day proved no different.  

Confirming the matter to himself was, as always, a very different matter.  The trip to the airport consisted of a self-contained conversation between the lesser of two evils.  Buffy and Giles exchanged weary, amused looks, catching only tidbits of his vocal rant.  "Wouldn't 'ave to be there all the time," he muttered.  "Hell, 'f they want me that much, I'll jus' make them conform to my sodding schedule.  All right, Spike.  Think of the money.  Focus on the money.  All the blood an' smokes you could ever want."

Begrudgingly, he told the Watcher to call the administration for him and let them know he would come back.  "But only till I find somethin' that pays better," he warned.  "Don' think for a bloody minute I'm gonna spend the rest of my days caught stuck in that rotten place."

Buffy would never say so, but she suspected there was a tiny, miniscule, itty-bitty part of him that was doing cartwheels at the prospect.  It would ruin his masculine frontage if anything to suggest the opposite were ever revealed.  

Before boarding, Spike took Giles's hand and shook heartily.  An emotional trade.  From both ends, the over-compensated sense of loss stretched with almost unbearable reality.  

"Remember when Red put us all under her 'Will Be Done' spell?" the platinum vampire asked lowly, as though dreading what would happen if he were heard.  "'Course, pretty much the same conclusion with the other, but anyway.  Remember?"

The Watcher smiled somberly.  "How could I forget?"

"Yeh.  Well."  He cleared his throat and shifted uneasily.  "I said, when you asked 'f I was helpin' you with the blindness an' what all, I said 's kinda like you're my father, right?"  At that, he tittered and shifted, avoiding the old man's eyes.  "Well…you get it.  Don' be a prat an' make me come out an' say it.  Soddin' Kum Bai Ya moment's enough for me."

A long, knowing beat passed between them, clinching any unfinished business.  Giles smiled.   "I understand, Will."

The vampire's eyes narrowed at him.  "'Ey there.  No more 'f that."

"My apologies.  Old habit."  He cleared his throat formally. "I am to presume you'll be back at work on Monday?"

Spike glanced to Buffy as though searching for an inkling of margin.  There was none to offer.  "Yeh, I'm guessin' so.  Be sure to 'ave a stake nice an' ready, jus' in case I get so painfully bored."

The Watcher's eyes twinkled in merriment.  "I'll be sure to have plenty of Weetabix and blood stocked."

"Yeh.  You better."  He grinned widely and took the Slayer's arm.  "See you round, Rips."  

The smirk dropped from the old man's face.  "I told you not to call me that!"

Spike flickered a brow in amusement.  "Come on, luv," he said, pulling his companion with him as he pivoted.  "We don' wanna keep our fans waitin'."

"Bye, Giles!" the Slayer called chirpily.  "See you in a few days!"

The plane was thankfully sparse in passengers.  They lowered the shutter to the window as a precaution, but they where scheduled to beat the sunlight a good hour and fifteen minutes.  Buffy drooped her head drowsily on the platinum vampire's shoulder and placed her hand reassuringly on her leg.  Sleep would claim her shortly.  A long, well-deserved nap.  

"I love you," she whispered.

The words got him with every utterance, milking him with life.  Whatever lay ahead, whatever prejudices and difficulties they faced in future didn't intimidate him.  Nothing could now.  They had each other, and that was all that mattered.

Resting his head against hers, he took her hand and squeezed.  "Back at ya, kitten."

Together, their eyes drifted shut, fingers entwined, not afraid to let go.  The picture of perfection.  The heart of all contentment, regardless if it lasted a day or a thousand years.

There was nothing to fear when the world was at their feet.  

The reward for a battle fought with blood and ivory.

Bliss.

FIN 

Conclusive Notes:  When I first started this project, I had no idea it would grow to be so long.  I had no idea it would be so hard to say goodbye to Will—I'll admit, I grew rather attached to him.  I had no idea it would be this warmly received.  I had no idea it would be so difficult to end.  And I had no thoughts concerning a sequel or a continuation of the plotline.  I cannot say whether or not there will be one, though my friend has been feeding me ideas for a possible continuation.  As always time, will tell.

My thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read and/or review this story.      


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